Hello Monday

Part 16; 7:42 am

I pace back and forth, locking my eyes on the ground. I don't know when I started to gnaw my nails off—must be at some point. I think my body feels cold, yet my sweat tells me otherwise.

"What's wrong? The big bad girl is scared of a little thunder? Don't worry; I'll save you!" Monday coos at me.

I stop my pacing and stare at him with a blank look. So very close to scratching his face with my now-blunt nails. "No. This big bad girl is not part of whatever fairytale you're in; she doesn't need a knight in shining armor," I bite back at him. I continue my pacing, this time giving the ceiling my attention.

"I want to be your knight in shining armor though, princess."

Freaking he—

I groan. And direct it at him.

"Just stop pacing back and forth, it's messing with my head," he says with the show of holding his head. "It was just a clap of thunder," he adds.

"That's not possible. How do you know that it was just thunder? It's bright outside. Doesn't look like it has a thunderstorm, does it? Then again, it does look windy outside. Maybe a scaffolding fell? But what if it's actually a gunshot? Goodness. What to do? Who do you think it is? It sounded too far to be outside this room. No, please—" I stop rambling when he takes me by the shoulders and holds me in place.

He shakes me a little before saying, "I don't know what you have going on inside of your head, but I can tell you that that was anything but a gunshot, okay? So if you don't want me to touch you, stop making me want to."

I stare at him, stunned. How dare he? How dare he say all that, expecting me to not make any reaction? Or is he expecting one?

Well, I won't give it to him.

I shrug his grip off of me. I put on my best 'I don't give a bleep' look—in other words, my constipated look.

He's right, though. Why am I worrying about something that my mind knows is not possible? Besides, I know that the worst thing the bullets in their guns could do is make a bruise. That is an argument I kept to myself, though. I don't want to tell him that I know that. It is reassuring for me to know what he doesn't know that I know. If that makes sense.

It does.

Relief floods through me the same time I feel an emotional lump in my chest. It is a building pressure that heightens my senses, activating water to pour out of my eyes. The fiasco starts with a heart-wrenching sob. I tried to keep it in; trust me, I did. I really did. But I couldn't, that's why I'm back on the floor, head between knees, trying my hardest to suck the treacherous tears back in.

I don't even know why I'm crying. Just because.

Suddenly, I feel a presence beside me. I don't want to give him a reason to mock me anymore, so I lift my head, wipe my eyes, and tilt my head away from his view. I am not one who likes to cry, so why—why out of all the times, all the places, all the people I can cry to, why now, why here, why him? Why is it that every time I'm around him, I cry? I will ask myself these questions for the next sixty years or so.

Without saying anything, Monday wraps his arms around my shoulder and pulls me against him. I can feel my heart beat... every single pound in my chest. I repeatedly hit my chest. Too fast, hit, not good, hit, too fast.

All of a sudden, I am conscious of everything around me. How his shirt feels rough on my cheek. How he doesn't smell bad but doesn't smell too good either. How his hands are gently caressing my hair. How he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. So maybe I didn't notice everything, but at this moment, he is everything.