The New York Project

13. Merry Christmas

For some brief seconds, she felt whole again. However, Robbie, who seemed to be fighting all along against himself, won this battle and pushed her away with the flat of his hands so that her back would lie on the bed.

"Stop this!" he commanded, panting, his hands still on her, crushing her on the mattress, "Either you have something new to tell me, or you get the hell out of my room. I'm not a thing you can play with whenever and wherever you want. I made it clear before, several times: I have deep feelings for you, therefore, if you don't share these feelings – or if you're not ready to confess them, I don't wish to do this. So, do you have something to tell me, Victoria?"

He had let go of her around the middle of his speech, and was now standing a few feet away from the bed, with a severity in his green eyes she had never seen.

Did she have something to say?

She didn't know, she wasn't sure.

Maybe she did.

Yet fear and pride took over, as they often do.

"No, I don't. I like you, obviously, but..." she muttered, half naked, sitting on the bed and running a shaky hand through her tangled hair.

"Get out of my room, then."

She murmured his name one last time and tried to reach for his arm, he said "go away" through his teeth and turned his back to her to look down at the quiet, white street.

***

Her steps lead her to the guest bathroom. She washed her trembling hands and stared for a moment at her reflection in the mirror. Something was off.

Who was this person staring back at her?

Who are you?

She was a mess.

Crazy hair, red eyes, black mascara trails on her cheeks, still wet with silent tears, nightgown ripped on the front, and, worst of all, red marks on her upper arms, neck, and chest. She was also beginning to feel some soreness between her legs, where he had touched her earlier.

She originally thought that his dedication at this moment showed lust and eagerness to please her – as usual – although, this time, it likely revealed a desire to hurt her as she had hurt him. An unconscious desire to wound her, presumably, but still.

She sat on the bathroom floor, quivering and nauseous. The water, flowing from the faucet, covered the frenzied sobs that soon came.

After an undefined lapse of time, she eventually got up and put some water on her face, in a poor attempt to feel better.

Once in her room, she noticed that her phone was twinkling, and hope lit her heart – if only for a brief moment. The text was indeed from him; however it only read "Don't leave the house, please, Charlotte would be very disappointed if you weren't here in the morning."

She shook her head in disbelief – right after this dark and deplorable encounter, he had managed to think about their little sister, asleep in her purple bedroom, waiting for Santa.

She didn't deserve him.

Because there she was.

Alone, again, hurt – physically and otherwise – weak, guilty, humiliated.

Ashamed.

***

She put an old Harvard hoodie on her ruined nightgown and cuddled on the guest room bed, under a very thick blanket, undoubtedly chosen by Brooke. Her mind was blank, and, surprisingly, her tears were all dried out. It took her a while to recognise this sensation: she had felt something similar when her mother had died in her arms after months of battle against cancer.