Handcuffed To An Idiot

Three:

        After my shower, I walk to my room in my blue robe, ready to get something comfortable to wear. My thoughts cloud over my thinking, and I'm not fully concentrated on where I'm going until I walk into my bedroom. I don't notice Marty sitting on my bed as I walk to the dresser until he startles me, by speaking. "Already picked an outfit for you." He says. A loud scream flees from my throat and I turn around, hugging my robe closely to my chest.

        "Gosh, darn it, Marty! You scared me!" I yell at him. He shrugs, then moves aside. I look at the bed and cross my arms. "Really, Marty? I'm not wearing that." I look up at him as if he were stupid for even assuming I'd think about wearing that hoodie. Harry's hoodie.

        "You're wearing it. Besides, if you run into him you can give it back to him. Or you can seem like you actually don't hate him so you don't have angry fans and paps after you."

        "But Marty, I do hate him!" I throw one of my hands in the air in exaggeration, the other still holding my robe.

        "Really?" He gives me an unbelieving look and crosses his own arms.

        "What?! You heard about my past! You know why I-"

       "Why you hate him? Vanity, that's unreasonable. It wasn't his fault that your friend got killed by that drunk driver. And how is getting to see them with your Mum a bad thing?"

        "Because of what happened afterwards!" I scream in his face. He jumps backward and widens his eyes, but then furious his eyebrows in anger. I know I shouldn't ever do that. I love Marty to death, but he has violent episodes when he's mad.

       "Don't yell at me, Vanity. I'm warning you." He steps toward me with his fists balled at his sides. But I can't seem to stop. I have the same problem that he does. Once I'm angry, I can't stop what I'm doing. Everything just flows out, or more like explodes.

        "She's dead! She died at their concert! And you go and ask me why I freaking hate him!" I slam my hands into his chest. He immediately grabs my wrists and slams me into the dresser behind me, which jabs into my back, making me yelp loudly.

        "I may be gay, but I am one of the strongest men you know. And I won't tolerate you putting your hands on me and screaming in my face. You're my best friend, Vanity, but I don't like attitude. Got it?" He growls. His blue eyes glare into mine, making me feel small and helpless.

        "Let go of me, Mitchell." I use his real first name, and regret it.

        "What did you call me?!" He bellows, his spit hitting me in the face, just seconds before his hand does. The force hits so hard that I fly into the wall. I gasp and grip my cheek, and my now-split eyebrow, tears fleeing as quickly as it took for him to hit me.

        "M-Marty… Y-y-you've ne-never hit m-me before!" I cry out, crawling to the back of the closet, away from him. His eyes are like golf balls as he stares down at his hands and then back at me.

        "I'm so sorry, Vanity. Let me see." He kneels down next to me, but I flinch as he reaches his hand up to touch my cheek. His eyes fill with hurt and a lone tear falls down his cheek as he stands and walks out the door. "Pick out something nice. I'll meet you downstairs in five."

***

        There's a faint bruise on my cheek and a small cut beside the edge of my eyebrow, both of which I'm super conscious of as we walk through the mall. I keep pulling my hat down and my sunglasses up. Marty hasn't said a word to me since we left the house. I don't see why I even had to come. Maybe he needed me as company? Or maybe he wanted me to get out of the house because of my day, yesterday.