Perfectly Imperfect

Treintainueve: hopeless

  "Get out," I snapped at Jax, my gaze glued angrily to the floor. I didn't bother turning to the newcomer. I'm in no hurry to face him.

  "I'm sorry, I —"

  "Get. Out," I hissed more severely, looking up to glare daggers at him instead.

  He surprised me by looking genuinely hurt, and regretful, but nodded solemnly and left anyway.

  It's for the best I suppose. . .

So why do I feel like calling him back?

  I heard the door to the house click shut. My heart dropped a thousand meters. Every ounce of anger or bravery that was in me before, just leaked away. It was replaced by. . . Fear. The emotion I despise most in this life. And not the overcome-able kind. Not the kind that challenges you and you can just laugh in the face of. The kind that overwhelms you and petrifies you, so you forget how to work your limbs. And when it pushes you down, it holds you there, so getting up isn't even among your wildest dreams. The type of fear you get when hopelessness knocks on your door and makes its self at home. Because, that's the only thing that generates it, complete and utter hopelessness that it'll get better.

  But hey. . . It could be worse, right?

  "Carmen."

  I'm having serious trouble thinking of ways, but I'm sure there are some.

  "Yes?" I squeaked.

  I thought he was supposed to be out all weekend.

  "You're in my office," it was so calm. So smooth. So Cold. So. . . deceiving.

  At least, it's intended to be, but I know all his tricks.

  It's the voice of a businessman who walks around wearing fancy suits and slicked back hair. Attached to the kind of guy you'd never imagine to do anything immoral or wrong, just because he wouldn't need to. Everything he wants just seems to fall at his feet. Jobs, money, the woman he wants.

  That's why he was so. . . Dissatisfied when he met yours truly. But, OF COURSE, the douchebag had to find a way to fix that.

  I whipped around to face him. "I was only in here to get that kid out. He was just wondering around like an idiot, he didn't know what he was doing. I told him to get out and. . ." I babbled rapidly, but my voice melted into nothing when I saw the expression on his clean shaven, all business face. It's no use.

  "We'll talk about that boy later," he hissed.

  Crap.

  I heard the floor boards beneath his feat creak as he took a slow steps forward.

  I gulped. He's standing in front of the door. I won't be able to get out without going directly past him.

We made direct eye contact.

  His features got even darker. He hates when I look him in the eye.

  . . . But deep down, I know that's part of the reason I do it.

  My little way of bucking the system and keeping some pride because, let's be honest, I'm just not me without at least the effort.

  That may sound petty or stupid, putting my neck out out of pridefulness, but it's all I have when it comes to him.

  He made a bigger and quicker step towards me, and I flinched. His eyes filled with disdain, scorn, and. . . Amusement."

  That son of a —