Tick, tick, tick. His eyes, small and narrow, linger observantly over the rim of the mug he is drinking out, his hand, the one he used to beat her with as she lay petrified on the floor in a foetal position, curled tightly round the body of the mug. They are watching her, flickering over form. Studying her. Boring into her, recklessly teasing her attention away. Her chest tightens as she inhales, her lungs expanding and pressing against her protective ribs, pushing their way out her body, driving him away from her. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, his steady surveying whittling away her composure, leaving a whisper of the women she once was.
Banal tasks. Sifting through orders, amending contracts, phoning potential tasks; all part of the job. No longer. All part of her personal struggle to survive. Her hand on her mouth, a pathetic shield, her breathe is cut short, heavy lids close over exhausted eyes, eyes that had seen more than they should have. Hair falls over her face, ebony stands buckling where her neck curves into her shoulders.
It festers deep within her. A desire she is struggling to fight. Her whole body craves it. Her throat aches for the bottled slumber inducing spirit, creeping down her jugular. Her stomach cries out for the comfortable burning sensation, pleasurable pain, for she knows what follows. Her brain pines for the inability to function, the lack of feeling, the disconnection; the capability to forget.
