Monster in His Eyes
Page 91
The world keeps turning.
I keep moving.
Life around me continues to go on.
Naz acts like nothing changed. He meant it when he said it, truly believed it, but it's different for me now. It's all different. The truth seeped into my bones, infused in my muscles, as much a part of me now as the blood in my veins.
Blood that still feels too heavy in my chest, making each beat of my heart painful.
The den is quiet. The television is on, but muted, reruns of Real Housewives playing on the screen. Naz isn't watching it, instead sitting at his desk with a book. He's reading. Reading. I don't think anything Raymond Angelo pays him to do requires him to look in a book.
I stand just outside the doorway, looking in. I know the TV is on for me. He does it every day, turns on something he's seen me watch before, like he's trying to coax me into the room with him.
I haven't gone in yet.
It's been a week.
He hasn't left the house. Every day the same thing, the same routine. He lies beside me at night, but I don't think either of us gets any sleep, staring into the darkness, lost in the bitter silence. He hasn't touched me… hasn't tried to touch me… since I spoke the safe word in the kitchen. Not so much as a brush of his arm against mine in seven days.
I'm grateful. I'm relieved.
But I ache.
I mourn the loss of his touch.
What's wrong with me?
He tore me in two—half of me still clinging to who I thought he was, while the other half is shattered by the man he turned out to be. I love him. I hate him.
If I never saw his face again, I would be better off.
But yet I stand in the doorway, not looking at the silent television, instead looking at him. I wonder what he's thinking, what he's reading, what he'd say to me if I talked to him. I wonder if he knows how I feel about him right now, if this is how he's felt about me all along.
He set out to destroy me, but he fell in love with me instead.
I fell in love with him, and that's what destroyed me in the end.
He says he would never hurt me, but he doesn't realize he already has.
He hurt me by loving me.
By being who he is.
Because I am who I am.
I stare at him like I used to stare at my philosophy book, like maybe all the answers will magically transfer into my brain so I know what I'm supposed to know, so I understand what so far has evaded me. My stomach knots, constricting the flight of the butterflies he gives me, until his gaze shifts my way. He doesn't move anything except his eyes as he regards me carefully. I feel like a child being watched, but he still looks at me like I'm a woman.
He looks at me like he needs me more than the air he breathes.
My lungs can't seem to work when he looks at me that way.
My chest burns, my stomach churns, my vision goes hazy and my knees go weak, all the while the two halves of me scream at the top of their lungs. I love him. I hate him. He's everything that's good. He's the worst of everything. He gives my life meaning. He'll take my life away someday.
My Prince Charming turned out to be the villain of my fairy tale, and part of me thinks that's okay, because eventually, it'll all disappear, anyway.
Nothing lasts forever.
Happily ever after, I think, doesn't exist.
Naz curves an eyebrow in question but remains silent. I hesitate for a moment before turning around and walking away.
There's nothing to do.
I mindlessly walk laps around the house, sitting in one room for a bit before moving on to the next, never going into the den. I consider calling the number my mother gave me, but it feels like a betrayal to Naz, and I'm not sure what to say to her, either. The fact that she hasn't called me sticks out like a sore thumb.
I text Melody and act like nothing is wrong.
I flick little birdies across the screen and annihilate pigs to occupy my time.
I even go outside and walk around the back yard. There's nothing out here, except for trees and grass, a lawnmower that desperately needs used and some rose bushes that seem like they've died a long time ago. I find the outside entrance to what I assume is the basement, and I consider going down there out of boredom, until I catch Naz watching me from the window in the den.
His gaze burns through me, so I go back inside, just to escape it, going upstairs and falling into bed, succumbing to exhaustion and taking a nap. When I awaken, the room is dark. It's well after nightfall.
My throat is dry.
My stomach growls ferociously.
Rubbing it, I head downstairs again. The light in the den is the only one that's on. I head into the kitchen, my footsteps faltering when I find a carton of Chinese food sitting on the counter beside the fridge. It's still warm when I pick it up, and I pop the top open, seeing it's beef Lo Mein with no vegetables.
He ordered it for me.
It's what I ask for when he orders Chinese.
I grab a fork and start eating, curiosity fueling me as I stroll toward the den. Once again, I pause near the doorway and look in.
The television is still on, the channel changed to some cooking competition. Naz is sitting at his desk, his feet kicked up now. He's changed, wearing a pair of sweat pants, which means he came upstairs while I was asleep.
His eyes drift my way. I haven't made any noise, but he seems to always know when I'm there. He stares at me, his gaze shifting to the food in my hand, before he turns back to his book.
It feels like an hour passes.
It might've been only a minute.
The silence is getting to me.
I keep moving.
Life around me continues to go on.
Naz acts like nothing changed. He meant it when he said it, truly believed it, but it's different for me now. It's all different. The truth seeped into my bones, infused in my muscles, as much a part of me now as the blood in my veins.
Blood that still feels too heavy in my chest, making each beat of my heart painful.
The den is quiet. The television is on, but muted, reruns of Real Housewives playing on the screen. Naz isn't watching it, instead sitting at his desk with a book. He's reading. Reading. I don't think anything Raymond Angelo pays him to do requires him to look in a book.
I stand just outside the doorway, looking in. I know the TV is on for me. He does it every day, turns on something he's seen me watch before, like he's trying to coax me into the room with him.
I haven't gone in yet.
It's been a week.
He hasn't left the house. Every day the same thing, the same routine. He lies beside me at night, but I don't think either of us gets any sleep, staring into the darkness, lost in the bitter silence. He hasn't touched me… hasn't tried to touch me… since I spoke the safe word in the kitchen. Not so much as a brush of his arm against mine in seven days.
I'm grateful. I'm relieved.
But I ache.
I mourn the loss of his touch.
What's wrong with me?
He tore me in two—half of me still clinging to who I thought he was, while the other half is shattered by the man he turned out to be. I love him. I hate him.
If I never saw his face again, I would be better off.
But yet I stand in the doorway, not looking at the silent television, instead looking at him. I wonder what he's thinking, what he's reading, what he'd say to me if I talked to him. I wonder if he knows how I feel about him right now, if this is how he's felt about me all along.
He set out to destroy me, but he fell in love with me instead.
I fell in love with him, and that's what destroyed me in the end.
He says he would never hurt me, but he doesn't realize he already has.
He hurt me by loving me.
By being who he is.
Because I am who I am.
I stare at him like I used to stare at my philosophy book, like maybe all the answers will magically transfer into my brain so I know what I'm supposed to know, so I understand what so far has evaded me. My stomach knots, constricting the flight of the butterflies he gives me, until his gaze shifts my way. He doesn't move anything except his eyes as he regards me carefully. I feel like a child being watched, but he still looks at me like I'm a woman.
He looks at me like he needs me more than the air he breathes.
My lungs can't seem to work when he looks at me that way.
My chest burns, my stomach churns, my vision goes hazy and my knees go weak, all the while the two halves of me scream at the top of their lungs. I love him. I hate him. He's everything that's good. He's the worst of everything. He gives my life meaning. He'll take my life away someday.
My Prince Charming turned out to be the villain of my fairy tale, and part of me thinks that's okay, because eventually, it'll all disappear, anyway.
Nothing lasts forever.
Happily ever after, I think, doesn't exist.
Naz curves an eyebrow in question but remains silent. I hesitate for a moment before turning around and walking away.
There's nothing to do.
I mindlessly walk laps around the house, sitting in one room for a bit before moving on to the next, never going into the den. I consider calling the number my mother gave me, but it feels like a betrayal to Naz, and I'm not sure what to say to her, either. The fact that she hasn't called me sticks out like a sore thumb.
I text Melody and act like nothing is wrong.
I flick little birdies across the screen and annihilate pigs to occupy my time.
I even go outside and walk around the back yard. There's nothing out here, except for trees and grass, a lawnmower that desperately needs used and some rose bushes that seem like they've died a long time ago. I find the outside entrance to what I assume is the basement, and I consider going down there out of boredom, until I catch Naz watching me from the window in the den.
His gaze burns through me, so I go back inside, just to escape it, going upstairs and falling into bed, succumbing to exhaustion and taking a nap. When I awaken, the room is dark. It's well after nightfall.
My throat is dry.
My stomach growls ferociously.
Rubbing it, I head downstairs again. The light in the den is the only one that's on. I head into the kitchen, my footsteps faltering when I find a carton of Chinese food sitting on the counter beside the fridge. It's still warm when I pick it up, and I pop the top open, seeing it's beef Lo Mein with no vegetables.
He ordered it for me.
It's what I ask for when he orders Chinese.
I grab a fork and start eating, curiosity fueling me as I stroll toward the den. Once again, I pause near the doorway and look in.
The television is still on, the channel changed to some cooking competition. Naz is sitting at his desk, his feet kicked up now. He's changed, wearing a pair of sweat pants, which means he came upstairs while I was asleep.
His eyes drift my way. I haven't made any noise, but he seems to always know when I'm there. He stares at me, his gaze shifting to the food in my hand, before he turns back to his book.
It feels like an hour passes.
It might've been only a minute.
The silence is getting to me.
