The water ran cold for a long time before she forced herself to get out. Even still she stood for long moments on the warm bathroom rug, staring and sightless, with her hands open and limp at her sides. She stood there long enough to drip-dry, for her hair to begin to lighten at her temples where it always dried first.
She told herself it was a switch, right now she was stuck on 'off', but soon she would flip the switch, and she would be herself again. And she would move.
In a moment.
A moment came and went. The marks hadn't really faded, especially his 'thumbprint' on the curve of her breast.
'Birthmark', she thought, thinking that's what it looked like, with its dusky rose colour that started deep then faded into her skin. She remembered her strange thoughts earlier, but half as if in a dream. She remembered wondering if she were real, if she had existed before...or if she had been born today.
'Birthmark' she thought, and a strange half-smile tilted her lips. It wasn't a smile at all. It was another one of those things that happened that she didn't understand at all.
There were so many of those things now.
The cold water had washed something away. Her tears had been sharp and hard, as if she were crying out broken pieces of herself. She wondered if those pieces were gone. She wished they were gone. She could stand being a hollow shell for a little while.
I'm so tired.
Emotions were so exhausting, she wanted only to crawl into bed and sleep for awhile, until this passed and she was 'normal' again.
A bitter thought, I wonder who's turn it is in the bed?
That strange non-smile returned, unexplained by the coin-deadness of her eyes. We both –slept- in the bed last night, so which turn counts?
Sarcasm, but right beneathe it was something hurt and scared, a little girl's voice repeating 'I don't want to'.
Would it smell like him?
Like her?
Like them?
I don't want to sleep in the bed.
She didn't want to leave the bathroom either. She didn't want to have to see him yet. She didn't have to deal with anything if he wasn't there.
She urged her feet to move, to take her forward to her robe, but they didn't move. She had to have been standing there for twenty minutes now. Had to have been in the shower for over an hour. She couldn't stay indefinitely.
Her head turned slowly to the door, and she wondered if he was waiting for her. If he had things to say. She wondered if she could even listen.
At that moment she didn't think she could bare to even hear his voice. It wasn't hate. Or anger.
Fear.
It was definitely fear.
He wasn't going to hurt her. She knew that, felt that. So where was this fear coming from?
Are you willing to answer that question now?
She did answer. Her silence was her answer.
You are going to have to face him sometime. Since when are you such a coward?
She sighed. I'm brash, but I'm not brave. So many people think one leads to the other.
Then forget courage, how about logic? You can't stay in the bathroom forever.
She took a step, and then another. Her bare feet left the damp rug and she slid her faded robe from the hook. It settled around her with a sense of familiarity. An odd enough thing when nothing around her felt familiar.
Habit had her applying her usual after-bath lotion, led her hands through the motions of brushing her teeth. She combed her hair in front of the mirror until it was half-dry, and half-gleaming like yellow silk.
Then it was all a matter of putting one foot in front of the other and leaving the bathroom. She stood in front of the door and stared at it.
What if he-
She forced that thought right out of her mind.
What if he-
She forced that one out, too.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she didn't reach for the knob.
Open the door, she demanded at herself.
Two sides of her were trying to push past each other, so she stood utterly still in place.
Open the Door.
Her hand half-lifted, hesitated in the empty space between reaching and resting.
Open. The. Door.
Another inch, her fingers brushed against the knob. They didn't curve or grasp.
Open the damn door, she snapped at herself, fed up with her own fear.
Her hand turned and jerked, pulling the door in so roughly that the cooler air of the bedroom hit her face like a slap. She froze in the doorway in wariness, her eyes darting around the room even as her defenses ruffled.
It's Aki, she wanted to shout at herself, you don't have to act like he's going to attack you.
He won't hurt me, she conceded, but he isn't exactly safe anymore, is he?
Do you think he's going to –rape- you, or something?
She scoffed at that. Of course not.
Then why act like this?
Silence. He wasn't in the bedroom, but she didn't relax.
I see.
If she could turn her sight inward, she would be staring at her inner voice in dull-eyed wariness at the slow dawning of comprehension to its tone.
He's not here, she commented lack-lusterly, wary of her own subconscious now. Where is he?
You're just as afraid of yourself as you are of him. More so, actually.
Where is he? She repeated, not a question anymore, but an emotional over-ride to that other statement. She wasn't going to acknowledge it.
It didn't push, but it backed down with a feel that was close to indulgent. The statement was already made, whether she dealt with it now, or later, it was there, waiting. Inescapable.
Is he in the kitchen, it then prompted, sweet, 'helpful'.
She sighed and slumped, glancing at the small kitchenette and pointing out to herself that he was not there.
He wasn't in the apartment, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.
Grateful to not have to deal with him yet.
Wary at even more of a split from the norm. He didn't leave without telling her where he was going first.
And neither do you. But you did. Maybe he's wary of confrontation, too.
No, he's not, she corrected that lie. He's clearly over-ready to 'deal' with this. He's just being sensitive to my emotions and giving me a little space.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly at that, her eyes growing hazy.
If you weren't my brother, Aki-
She snapped down on that thought, no longer so ignorant to the subtle danger in it. It was thoughts like that that had gotten her into trouble.
It was a curiosity, a need to understand, that got me in trouble. He felt this way, but I'm the one who wouldn't quit poking at his feelings. I should have put it all behind me and ignored it for as long he let me.
Curious phrasing...
I'm not stupid, not really. Not to that extent, anyway. Ignorance would have gotten me only so far. He would have slipped up eventually.
So certain of that. Maybe this would have blown over with you none the wiser.
Pretty to think so, but whether his emotions would have changed again with time or not...doesn't change the fact that he sees me this way, now. That isn't something that can be taken back...
And don't act coy, she sighed, sitting herself on the edge of the bed and staring down at her open hands. I know you don't mean that. You are only playing Devil's Advocate.
That tilted smile again.
Isn't there a rule against your own subconscious using reverse psychology on you?
Whatever works to shake you out of your denial.
Denial exists for a reason, she thought weakly.
Yes, and it works to an extent. But you have to know when it's time to let it go.
I'm not ready to let it go. Besides, what exactly do you think is behind this denial? I love Aki. But not like that.
Like what?
Like...like a woman. Like a lover.
That word was difficult to think for some reason.
How do you explain last night to yourself?
Unadorned words, soft and plain, but with enough of a point to jab her in the lungs. Her next breath had to be forced out, as if she were squeezing it between fingers that were wrapped tight around her chest.
What do you want from me, she finally mumbled, not really looking for an answer. I don't know how to explain it. I don't know what to do...
And under that, the weak plea for it to just stop. Stop pushing. Stop attacking. She was breakable, and things had already shaken her up so badly.
Hiding will-
Just stop!
Hands curled into fists, nails biting palms. Her eyelids squeezed down tight as her breath felt as if it was a fist beating at her chest.
Just stop!
And then she was quiet again, tears stinging her eyes again.
Someday I will deal with this. But it can't be today...it can't be right now.
I need to breathe, all right? I need to just...settle back into my skin before I can even think about any of this.
How did you get your over-active mind to back down? Especially when it is filled with such urgent questions?
You move. Physical action is the only thing that will subdue the mind. But it is a flawed sort of therapy, transitory and easily up-ended. But it does work. For a time.
Aya got up and did what she should have from the start, she dug out her nightclothes, subconsciously searching for the thickest, least flattering pieces that she owned. Whether for armor, or not to torment him-she did not answer that question for even herself. Then she drug it all back in the bathroom and changed there. Hanging up her robe, her damp towel.
She returned to the living area, and realized he had robbed her of this defense as well. The room was clean and spotless, and there was nothing physical for her to focus her attention on.
How would you have reacted had the room been in disarray when you returned?
Don't even start again, she commented, turning into the kitchenette and continuing her fruitless search. She sighed, bowed her head as everything nearly sparkled in its perfect place. Apparently he had used the same method to wait her out.
She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
All that's left...is to go to bed.
Her shoulders tightened again, her neck crawling as she became hyper-aware of the bed. As if it had a presence all its own.
She turned slowly and looked back at the bed. One corner where she has sat-the sheets were mussed slightly there. Every other edge was perfect and smooth. The pillow aligned at the head, the cover pulled tight and draped evenly.
A perfect, made bed.
She approached it slowly with small steps, though the distance passed far too quickly. Then she stared down at it and wondered how the world could work this way. Could keep moving, and seem perfectly normal-when it was anything but.
Her hand lifted, shook, hesitated. She grasped the comforter between her fingers, dug her nails in, and pulled. With a strange slowness and empty head, she drug the cover over, folding it in on itself and disrupting its unsullied state. Then she took up the pillow and placed it with care cock-eyed half over the edge.
Beneath the cover, the now exposed sheet was white and smooth. She caught one edge and pulled it tight, writing a bitter tale in every new wrinkle she created.
At the same time, she felt nothing. Approached her behaviour as if it was merely a task that had to be done.
He smoothed things over. He restored the order. She needed to disrupt the world outside her head to take her focus off the chaos within.
Is it working?
That sweet inner-voice, always calling her on her absurd behaviour.
Messing up what he has so painstakingly fixed...it did appeal to her on some level.
The world should be as out of place as I feel.
Her fingers clenched in the sheet, then let go. She stared blankly down at the bed.
You want to destroy what happened. You have made the bed a symbol of that.
I know that, she said.
But the bed is just an inanimate object. It shares no blame here.
I know that.
Set it on fire. Burn it away. It still won't change what has happened.
I know that!
She was panting, she hadn't shouted that out-loud, but there was something so very physical about her reaction. She threw the sheet down, and then herself. She fell sideways onto the bed and brought her arms and legs up tight. Curled in a way she knew was vulnerable, but it was the way she felt, so she let it show in her motions. Who was there to see anyway?
She alternated between two desires as she lay there and shook. As she breathed hard and squeezed her eyes down tight, but did not cry. She wanted him to stay away, not for forever, not really, but long enough for her to find her balance again.
And she wanted him there. She wanted his knee under her cheek and his fingers in her hair, as he whispered soothing words and curved his back over her to create a shelter from the world.
But what would she have to give up to gain such comfort?
What would she have to give in?
Don't feel this way.
Make me understand.
They were just whispers inside her. Contradictive and complimentary. She felt them both, hard edges and soft centre. Which was stronger-she couldn't honestly say. She couldn't even measure them out in the shifting fabric of her mind.
She just knew that she wanted him there.
And far, far away.
tbc...