I can't follow the way she moves, I can't see past the shadows.
It was the early morning. There was no sun, no warmth, just darkness and the looming feeling of what was to come.
She slid her nightgown off, the white cloth pooling at her feel.
He watched her, eyes focused as if he had no just woken up. She didn't acknowledge him, just kept herself facing towards the mirror and stared at her nearly naked body. Her long, ragged scar with a curled top shimmered pale white in the moonlight. Quietly she pulled her shirt on to cover it and turned around to find her pants.
But she found that he was blocking her, all stealth and precise hands as they slid under her shirt to trace the scar. His head ducked to her neck, and she could not detect any movement that was laced with sleep – he was so careful, and there was something about patterns he traced on her skin.
"You don't think I'm going to get hurt again, do you?" she questioned in a whisper, the appropriate tone in the midnight light. Her knowing eyes cast down at his hair, still buried in her shoulder. Then there was a tightening on her hips and suddenly his touch became harsh, against her scar and against her collarbone.
That was answer enough to her, and she accepted his silence. Pushing past him to the door, she looked back apologetically.
"I'll see you in a few days," she reassured him, hanging at the door, reluctance plain on her face. But he had turned away by then and was staring out the window. She knew he'd watch her as she walked out of the apartment, all the way down the path that lead to the main road where she wouldn't be visible.
And he'd pace the house.
He wouldn't sleep.
He'd hardly eat.
And he'd wait.
Until she returned all bent and broken in the eyes, and he'd hold her, and that was when he talked to her most, when words meant something than sounds to fill the air.