Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a massive fan.
I want to send a huge thank you everybody's way, for your kind and encouraging words. It means the world to me x Hope this chapter is alright. I may not get the chance to update before Christmas so if not, I hope you have a safe and happy Christmas :)
CHAPTER TEN
Seven days. I've been here so far for a total of seven days now, or so he has told me. A full week now. It might as well be seven years, with how painfully slow the hours seem to go, especially when I am alone in the house and he is at work.
I've been trying to give him hell all week. Hoping that if he sees how difficult I am making this for him, he will eventually decide it isn't worth it, in keeping me here and that he'll let me leave out of the goodness in his heart. So far, it hasn't worked though.
I've done everything I could think of: I have been making sure I watch the news daily, but I haven't heard anymore on that WU student that has gone missing.
I've tried the cordless phone I found in another room I hadn't been in before, which looked like a home office, only to find it was disconnected, like he said.
When he leaves for work, I search his room, shoving my hands into the pockets of the clothes he wore the previous night before, trying to find one of the key cards he mentioned about that is the only way out of this place, giving me access to use the elevator. That too, has failed. He must be so calculated and methodical about all of this; He must know to take all the key cards with him so I couldn't possibly ever find them to get out.
I have also started throwing stuff down over the balcony, stuff he wouldn't notice has gone missing in a hurry. Like kitchen appliances, for instance. His toaster and a few forks. He noticed the toaster was missing the instance he got home, yet he wasn't mad when I confessed what I had done at all. I think in some sick and perverted way, it may have even impressed him, the lengths I am going to. But I thought that someone at least would be concerned and come up here to find out what that was all about, someone throwing out stuff over the balcony that could do serious damage if it so happened to hit someone that was walking on the pavement directly below the building.
So far, no one has even bothered to come check. Not even the police.
My moods have been everywhere, fluctuating between anger at him, to pity. Pity for how he was treated as a child, the abuse he suffered and the physical scars from that- just as he showed me five nights ago. Usually that pity only lasts for ten minutes at the most, and then I'm off almost hating him and wishing some bad things onto him that I never dreamed I would think so maliciously of before.
I have tried to be nice to him, yet its impossible. I thought seeing his face now would make it easier to deal with, but it hasn't at all. Sometimes I will just stare at his face and wish I could slap him. He's just so passive in an extremely irritating way.
Last night, I went above and beyond the usual.
After making dinner for him, I just started chucking my plate and cutlery on the floor out on some crazy whim. And what did he do? Yell and get angry? Lash out on me finally, telling me to stop it with a threat? No, he didn't do anything. He just knelt down, warning me to watch that my feet don't get cut on the broken shards of porcelain, and that was it. He carried a dustpan and broom over to clean all the mess up, not even expecting me to do it.
It astounds me that, no matter how hard I try to push him, he won't be moved into violence.
Of course I'm glad that he seems to be so determined to treat me well. He's shown me all week that he has no true intentions to hurt me physically- just deny me my basic human rights of freedom. Slapping him, screaming at him, breaking things... he shows admirable self-restraint. I wonder if he's used to being abused and sworn at though. Maybe that was the exact same treatment he got from his abusive mother and now he is naturally conditioned to being treated that way by the opposite sex?
Either way, his actions have shown me he has no intentions to beat me up or rape me. He hasn't attempted to do either of those things, not in a full week of me being stuck in his house. He hasn't come into the room he keeps me in at the middle of the night for any unpleasant surprise visits. He's respectful to me in that way.
But no matter how well he has been treating me so far, sometimes I feel on the verge of breaking down in hopeless despair. Other times I am so filled with a raging fire of determination that makes me feel as though nothing can truly get me down, not even one failed attempt at escaping or capturing his sympathy after the other.
These seven days have probably been the loneliest I have ever felt in my entire life. I feel so lonely, so stuck and secluded from the world, which I realistically am.
Christian.
I catch myself craving the minute he comes home from work, which is terrible. I actually count down the minutes to go, until he does now. Seven full days of being alone and having no contact with anyone else will do that to you.
But he wants me this way. He's doing this to me. He's keeping me isolated from everything I used to know, breaking me down so I feel glad whenever he comes home because he is literally the only person I have left in my world right now. A part of me believes its exactly his intentions, its what he wants. He wants me to think he is all I have left. He wants it this way; He wants me to be isolated and lonely, only to feel pleased when he comes home. Like a twisted mind game.
I still have no clue what he expects from me. When I ask him, he either doesn't say anything or he deliberately says cryptic things. Like when I ask for a specific time-frame of how long he expects me to stay here, he'll say, "For however long it takes. For however long it takes to happen."
For what to happen, though? What can he possibly expect to happen while keeping me here the way he is?
It's the most frustrating yet simultaneously scary thing about this. He won't be direct with me and tell me what he wants. If he just told me and was straightforward, I think I would do whatever he wants, whatever it takes to make it so I get out of here quicker. Yet he refuses to have it that way.
Either way, I know I'm going to die if he doesn't eventually let me go.
Maybe not die by him killing me or inflicting harm on me, but... kindness. And maybe that's his tactic? He wants me to die. He wants to eventually kill me with his kindness.
Just like a usual thing that I have done with being here lately, I make a start on getting dinner prepared. It's been a routine I have quickly adopted; Cooking seems to be the only thing that soothes me right now.
It offers a nice and peaceful distraction, and getting the measurements and ingredients right forces me to focus on that rather instead of dwelling on anything else, like the mind-numbing, crippling loneliness I have been feeling.
It's five thirty in the afternoon, and I have learned by observation that he arrives home just after six.
Throughout the week, he has asked me what I would like, as far as food goes. He stocked the fridge with good food so that I could cook decent meals. I just asked him for ingredients to make the food I am familiar with, the recipes I know by heart that I would make at the apartment with Kate.
He has been bizarrely over-appreciative and grateful with the meals I do make for dinner when he comes home; It's like what he said before, was actually true. That no one ever cooks for him. If so, then that's just downright tragic. Just like his childhood was, with his abusive mother.
While I have some potatoes and peas boiling on the stove, I leave them for a few minutes, heading out onto the balcony. Another small thing to be appreciative of lately, is the amazing view. At night, all the buildings light up in the dark. At least he isn't denying me that, the peacefulness in standing out on the balcony...
I've just been standing out for barely two minutes at the most, leaning against the railing and staring up into the grey cover of clouds beginning to form over the sun, when I hear the tell-tale noise that he has arrived home.
Fuck, he's arrived home already. Is it even past six yet?
Feeling panicked, I rush back inside, running barefooted into the kitchen, pretending to be busy in peering into the fully stocked fridge trying to decide what meat to go with the boiled vegetables. He still hasn't given me my shoes back but at least my foot no longer requires a bandage, which makes for easy running. My foot has healed enough that I no longer require anything; It's just a scab now that's fading slowly.
He doesn't announce himself as he enters the kitchen; He never does, I've learned that very clearly by being stuck here. It's like he almost expects to find me doing something I shouldn't so he can catch me off-guard.
I peer over my shoulder, my stomach tensing, to find him halfway through pulling his jacket off. He always dresses so suave and business-like. I haven't even asked him what his job entails exactly, or just where it is he works at. Honestly, it's been the last thing on my list to do. Half the time, it takes a lot of energy to work myself up into talking to him and being pleasant.
When he finally looks my way, he nods once in acknowledgement before leaving the room to go into his bedroom. I hear the door close fully, and its like an instant load-off.
Despite him being mild-mannered and hardly aggressive towards me no matter what I do, I still can't ease that constant tension in my muscles. It's always there, at the back of my mind, no matter how hard I try to push it away and focus on just being in the moment with him, that he's keeping me here like a prisoner. He's my jailer. He could literally decide to do anything to me at any given moment. It's just fortunate that for me, he hasn't tried anything yet.
He's just biding his time, I always seem to be reminding myself. He isn't a normal and sane person, otherwise he wouldn't keep you here like this. He may put on this facade of being nice and well-mannered to you, but underneath, truly...he is just a malevolent beast waiting for the precise moment to strike. Never lose sight of that, Steele. Never.
By the time I hear his door reopen, I have steak already on the counter while I fuss around, trying to find a decent-sized pan to use to cook them in.
"Wrong cupboard," his voice comes from behind me, startling me. I hadn't heard him come into the kitchen that quickly.
"What?" I ask quietly.
"Wrong cupboard. If you are looking for the pans, they are under here." He slips in next to me, bending down to open one of the cupboards to show me where they are. Surely enough, they are in the bottom of the cupboard, neatly stacked near one another.
"Okay. I just need one big enough for two steaks."
He finds one for me, bringing it out. He places it on the sink, stepping back to leave me in peace to do my work. He never seems to like being in his own kitchen very much, though I don't know why. Being wary of him and constantly watching him has made me learn a lot these past seven days.
"Seeing as you know where everything is, you might as well do the steaks yourself then," I suggest petulantly, the anger slipping inside of me easily, taking over.
It's how I've been lately, sometimes without any control on it. He makes me so aggravated, even when he isn't actually doing anything to make me feel that way. One minute, I am trying to be understanding and pretending like I want to get to know him. Then in the next, I've changed, turning into a defensive and hostile person towards him.
"You can cook the steaks while I set the table."
Relieved to get out of the small space in his kitchen while he is in there, I pull the drawer open, grabbing the cutlery before moving to where the table is. When I turn back to look at him, I see he is just standing there, the pan still where he left it on the sink. He's just staring hard at the steak still in the plastic packaging, sort of confused, like he doesn't know what he is supposed to do. How stupid. I mean, how fucking hard can it be to do something as basic and ordinary as cooking steak? Is he that clueless?
It's been seven days and still, I find it disarming that I can see his face completely now. I can see everything he is feeling, work out his expressions. Read him now that he isn't wearing that ridiculous balaclava anymore. Weird thing is, I don't find him in anyway repulsive, like he had initially suspected I would have. Sometimes I have caught myself wondering, wondering if he would be the type of man I would be attracted to in the real world, if we had somehow met out on the street. But he does repulse me, just not with how his physical features are.
He repulses me with his actions and what he is doing to me, refusing to let me leave. Yet, I find him somewhat... fascinating to look at. The two differences are impossible to reconcile.
"Turn on the stove and let it heat up while you undo the steaks and put them in the pan," I say, losing my patience. "You're acting like you haven't even cooked yourself a steak before?"
He sighs loudly in frustration, lifting a hand to rub it down the side of his face. I think he looks embarrassed, though I may be mistaken.
"What? Is that it?" I mutter in disbelief, arching my brows. "You've never actually even cooked a steak before?"
Christian's jaw twitches as he grits his teeth. He definitely is embarrassed, because he won't even dare to lift his eyes to meet mine. "I don't cook," he admits quietly after a long moment, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, the mortification there almost radiating off of him. "I know its... stupid but I don't cook much. I haven't actually even used the stove before."
Holy shit. He hasn't ever used his own stove before? I should find it pathetic, yet my pity for him overrides it. "Do you even know how to cook at all?"
"Of course I do, Anastasia." He shrugs, in an overly defensive way. "I know how to make salads and do toast. It's just all of this... other stuff that I am not completely familiar with." I know he's lying; He doesn't know how to cook at all, but he just doesn't want me knowing that he can't. It's something that will damage his ego, I can tell.
My God. It's truly no wonder he seems so appreciative over me cooking him dinner then. He mustn't eat anything for dinner because he lacks the knowledge on how to cook himself anything...
"Salads don't count," I say patronizingly before I can stop myself. "You just buy the ingredients and mix them together raw. I don't think that classifies as cooking, not really. And toast? I don't think that counts either when all you do is put slices of bread in the toaster..."
"Okay," he mutters over me loudly, slapping a hand against the counter roughly in all his irritation. "So I'm pretty fucking stupid that I don't know how to cook at my age. Are you happy now that I have admitted that to you?"
Oops. Another touchy subject for him obviously...
I've obviously pushed him far enough, damaging his ego. I think of a way to backtrack, something to make him feel better. "It's okay," I whisper, trying to placate him. "I'm sure a lot of people don't know how to cook, no matter what age they are. It's not such a bad thing, and I'm sure you'll pick it up quickly with some practice. I only learned when I was a kid because I had to." I can tell he is still irritated when I come back into the kitchen, talking him through it patiently. It's only once the steaks start sizzling in the pan on the stove-top that his mood seems to brighten at the results of what he is doing so far. "Just turn them over after three minutes so they cook evenly on both sides. It's that easy."
"You're making fun of me."
"No, I'm not. I'm really not, I swear." Or am I?
"I know you are. I know that's what you are doing."
"I'm not," I say again, trying to sound more convincing. "And besides, even if you don't know how to cook much, I can teach you and that's a start. You just need a bit of practice and... patience. Then you'll see it isn't so hard."
I shouldn't be teaching him how to cook, not really, my brain screams at me. That isn't a good way of thinking. He can go starve and die, for all I care. I shouldn't care that he doesn't know how to cook. He doesn't deserve my sympathy.
But no, I can't just let him starve. I'm not that person, even if I think it and garner some sense of satisfaction in wishing the worst for him like I have been doing lately. I can wish it, but I can never completely go through with it. Because whether I like it or not, he decides my fate. I can't escape until he either lets me go, or I find where he puts all the key cards to gain access of the elevator to get out of here.
I stab at one of the potatoes with a fork, testing it out. It seems soft enough, so I carry the pot off the stove, tipping the water out down into the drain in the sink.
"So you learned to cook as a kid?" he asks me, and when I glance behind my shoulder, I discover he is staring at me, watching me with those disturbing deep gray eyes of his.
"I did, because I had to. My parents worked long hours so I had to learn how to fend for myself. But when my parents divorced, it was... different. I cooked for my father while I stayed with him, because he was nearly as..." - I hesitate, trying to find the right word that won't insult him- "unsure as you were about how to cook."
"Why did your parents divorce?"
"I don't know. I guess they just... grew apart and wanted different things. They never really told me the reason why. My mother seemed pretty happy to move on quickly to the next man, though. Less than a year later, she had already moved in with this other guy that she met in another state while I stayed where I was with my father."
"You didn't go live with her?"
I don't really see why he could feel it is so interesting, my parents. But I decide there isn't too much harm in him knowing. "No, I didn't because I was still in school. It would have meant being pulled out of school to go live with her which would have been... annoying since I had already made friends and had settled in. So they decided it would be better for me if I stayed with my dad and remain where I was in the same school." I dish out, placing the steaming hot potatoes and the peas on the plates. "I did go visit my mother and her new partner once. For about a week. I just... I didn't like him, to be honest. But my mother was really into him and she still is, so what could I do?"
"Why didn't you like him?"
I feel myself tense up, for another entirely different reason; One that has absolutely nothing to do with his presence for once. I have never really talked about it to anyone. Not even Kate.
"Well, her partner Steve, he just... when I went to visit them and stay in the house with them for the week, he was just very... forward. I guess forward is the word you could use to describe him. And very... inappropriate, too. He just said a few comments that I felt were extremely inappropriate for a man to say to his partner's teenage daughter. He just made me feel uncomfortable by the things he would say. I guess he just didn't understand that there are certain things you don't say to your partner's daughter, things that overstep certain... boundaries."
Once I dump the pot in the empty sink, turning to look at him, I find he is staring at me, his eyes squinted in avid concentration. "What kind of things did he say? What inappropriate things exactly?"
God, I wish he wouldn't bother asking. It's uncomfortable enough as it is, having to speak it out loud to someone. Especially to him, of all people. But he did say he wanted to get to know me. I might be that much closer to being given my freedom if I let him.
"Well, my mother was working late and we were watching the TV while waiting for her to get home. He said something to me like, 'Do you think you'll be nervous when its your first time, Ana?' He made it seem like a good joke, like he was fooling around with me, but it made me feel uncomfortable."
"And why did he feel the need to ask you that? Why did he bring that question up?"
I force my eyes away from him, checking the steaks in the pan. Since he seems too busy with listening to me, I flip them over myself.
"It's been awhile, so its a bit hard to remember just why he bought it up the way he had. I think we were watching a movie though, and a love scene came on between the two actors. Maybe he just wasn't aware of what was appropriate to say to your girlfriend's daughter and what wasn't? I don't know." I shrug, immediately wishing we weren't talking about it. Even to this day, when I think about his comment, it still makes me feel uncomfortable. "He was in his early forties at the time and he hadn't had children, so maybe he lacked knowledge on how to speak to one? Who knows?"
When I throw a quick look his way again, to my misfortune, he is still watching me. But there's a bit of tension there around his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes squinted into small, hard slits. He seems almost... dangerously angry, though I don't get why he would be.
"And what?" he hisses through clenched teeth. "Did he ever-"
"- Touch me?" I butt though him, knowing what he was about to ask. "Do anything else to me? No, he didn't. I don't think Steve is actually... like that. I think he was just ignorant on what he should say to me and what he shouldn't. That's all." Desperate to forget our conversation, I check the steak again. "Okay, the steaks ready. You can dish it out on the plate."
With the stove turned off and everything done, we bring our plates over to the dining table, pulling out our usual seats. This is what we have been doing every night for the past six days. We'll sit and eat the dinner I cooked, though sometimes we don't speak. There are times where I don't feel in the mood, that I feel too consumed with hatred to even dare talk to him. But tonight isn't one of those nights. Tonight, I feel ready to try again; To try seeing whether if I asked hard enough and persistently enough, then he would finally give me an honest answer on why he has me here. I figure he has to crack and break eventually.
"So what about your father?" I ask carefully, because I don't know yet if that's another issue for him to talk about. "I know you... you told me about your mother, but you never mentioned anything about your father? Where was he when..." I trail off uncertainly.
He finishes my sentence for me, "Where was he when my bitch of a mother treated me like shit, you mean?"
I can't get over how disturbing it is for him to speak of his very own mother like that, in such a hateful, cold tone. But really, when I think about what he has shown me, what she gave him as a boy, all the anguish and pain she caused him, I suppose he is completely justified in referring to her in that way. "Yes, that's... exactly what I mean. Where was he? I don't understand how he could let her treat you that way and not do anything about it to make her stop?"
He places both elbows on the table, lifting a hand to rub his fingers over his lightly bearded chin. "I never... knew who my father was. The bitch was a whore though. She... was very promiscuous. I don't know if she was a prostitute but she certainly acted like one. I think I remember her having sex with this one guy while I was still in the room, and she didn't even give a shit that I could see." I feel shocked at his words, at how... unimaginably horrible his childhood must have been. It's just so impossible to believe because it sounds that bad. "She probably had sex with so many different men that she couldn't even remember who my biological father was. With her, with what she had done to me, it really wouldn't surprise me if that was it."
"You have a lot of... hate for her," I observe uneasily.
"Well, wouldn't you have a lot of hate for someone like that as well? If they told you constantly that you were worthless, ugly. If they treated you like a burden, something they never wanted in the first place? If they... hurt you?"
"I don't know. It's... hard to say how I would feel. Obviously I can't... put myself in your shoes."
To my relief, everything is silent for a few minutes, while Christian picks up his cutlery and starts eating.
"So is this what you want?" It tears out of my mouth before I can help it. I need to know if I'm making any progress. "Just this? Us talking like this and getting to know each other?"
He simply nods once at me, chewing down on a piece of steak. It makes a big lump swell in my chest.
"Are you lonely?" I've gotten the impression that he is. He seems a deeply lonely person to me. Damaged, due to what happened to him as a child. And unstable. And insecure especially, due to the way he assumes he looks to other people.
He swallows, staring into my eyes deeply for a prolonged moment. I think he might be searching for something in my expression, but I don't know what. I hope he doesn't see anything that makes him feel I'm playing him.
"I've been lonely for an extremely long time, yes. I won't lie to you."
"What about friends?" I ask. "Your... your family?"
"All my life, I have been alienated. I don't have any friends." His voice drops just below a regretful whisper. "I only have my family. Aside from them, my foster family, I have... nothing else."
"That can't be true," I get out, laughing shakily. "I mean, look at your beautiful house! You have this large house, with so many beautiful things! You have a gorgeous view of Seattle, and all you have to do is step outside on your balcony to see it. I bet your house is extremely expensive?"
He shrugs carelessly. "It's just materialistic things. Nothing important."
"Well, you are clearly doing well for yourself, aren't you?" I hope to God I don't sound as though I am sucking up to him, that I'm just saying that. Part of me is just saying it, while another part of me... it's trying to understand. "You have obviously accomplished a lot and have overcome what happened in your childhood?"
All he does is stare at me, in a strangely intense way. I don't think I have ever met anyone with such an unnerving, piercing gaze before.
"I suppose what I'm trying to work out here, is just... why you feel the need to do this to someone like me?" I shake my head helplessly, at a loss. "You have obviously done well in life. You have what seems to be an... expensive and beautiful place, overlooking Seattle. You seem to be doing well for yourself, so... what reason would you have to do this to someone in keeping them here like this? I mean, you're successful and... young. Surely you wouldn't need to resort to doing something so... inhumane as this just to get to know someone? I just... I don't really understand what you want from me?"
"I told you. I just want for us to get to know each other."
"What? Like friends?" I can't help the derision that coats my tongue. "You want us to become friends, because... you are lonely and you don't have any? You want someone to have here that you can talk to, someone who can... understand and feel sorry for all the terrible ordeals you have had to endure as a child? Someone who can listen and.. help you overcome your loneliness? Is that it?" Just like with so many other things, I want to understand him. He just needs to give me a chance to.
"If I wanted someone who could listen to me and help me, Anastasia, then I could easily talk to my therapist." His words are low and sharp. "If that was what I wanted, I could talk to him about that shit when we have our next session."
Okay, so he has a therapist that he sees. At least he is trying to get the help he needs. Obviously it isn't helping much though, if he sees its rational to do this to me...
Just like that, I'm done. I no longer feel up to eating. I feel like I'm going around and around in circles, with trying to give him what he truly wants. All I get, is confusion and cryptic words that never make any sense. It's hopeless.
I push the chair back, getting to my feet. "I'm done. I'm not hungry anymore." Gathering up my plate and cutlery, I dart towards the kitchen, kicking the bin open ready to scoop it into the trash. "Until you can tell me what it is that you truly want from me, then I'm not eating anything."
It seems the perfect tool to bargain with, because as I am just getting ready to scoop my steak, potatoes and peas into the trash, he says suddenly with a tone of urgency from where he remains at the table, "Wait. Just put it in the refrigerator and then you can eat it later or tomorrow when you are hungry."
"No," I snap irritably. "That isn't the way it's going to be. Either you tell me now or I'll-"
"- I just want you to love me, Anastasia." It erupts out of his mouth, so quietly and desperately, that I almost think I have heard wrong. Or well, I hope I have.
"What?" When I spin around on the spot to look at him, the blood draining from my face in shock, I watch as he stands slowly from his chair.
"I just want for you to love me, that's all," he repeats, a bit louder. Obviously it wasn't his intention for it to slip out so suddenly, so readily, because he looks flustered and embarrassed. He sighs loudly, glancing away from me for a second. He lifts a hand, raking his fingers slowly through his hair. I feel like I can't breathe, like I can't move. I'm suffocating. "I know it sounds crazy, but it... its what I want. I just want someone to love me for once." He turns his head, facing me. There is something there in his gray eyes. Pleading? Desperation? Fear? "I want you to love me."
So many things rush through my head at once, so many various ways to react. Do I burst out loud laughing in disgust and disbelief? Do I run into the bedroom in horror? What? How is the sensible way to react to something so bat-shit crazy as this?
"So... so that's why you are doing this?" I breathe out tonelessly. I thought I would have been glad to finally know what his intentions were, yet I feel anything but glad. For this to be the reason for him to do this to me... It was not something that came into my mind into being a reason, not at all. Not once. "It isn't just because you want to get to know me, but because you... you want me to try to love you?"
It's the worst possible reason. I may as well just go ahead and die now, because I know I could never love him.
"What? Did you think I would eventually come to love you while you have me prisoner here in your house like this? That I would be able to see you as anything other than... than my kidnapper?"
Oh, God. It is worse than any other reason I could have come up with. He truly is fucked up.
"You know, your mother was right," I say, placing the plate on the sink. I hate the idea of hurting him, of throwing his fears right back into his face. I usually hate being mean, to anyone; Even to the point where I will lie just to make them feel better. But it feels like the only way to get my point across well enough. I may feel like a bitch later for doing it, but its the only way. "You are repulsive, but you know what? It isn't your face that truly makes you repulsive. You're quite... handsome, but even that wouldn't matter. You want to know why?" He doesn't say anything, he simply stares at me bleakly. "It isn't what's on the outside that makes you repulsive, Christian. It's what is on the inside that makes you repulsive. Any man that can do this to a girl in stealing her away and keeping her locked up while seeing there is nothing wrong with what he is doing is repulsive in my view!"
With that said and before I can do anymore damage, saying something else I will majorly regret later, I turn on my heel, stomping up towards the stairs to go back inside the room away from him, my eyes stinging with tears.
HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY?
Liking still? Hating? Either way, I would love to know.
I am not too sure if I will be able to update before Christmas, so Merry Christmas if I don't.
Hope you have a safe and happy one.