Why I'm Not an Idiot

Eyes

Matt and I are kissing. Not just a peck, like a full-on, heavy, heated make-out. I can feel his heartbeat and his bare chest against mine. He's warm and safe. It feels like the first time again. His hand runs up and down my back and we giggle and smile and embrace.

Then he presses against one of my bruises - the one on my chest - and this knocks the air out of me for a second. But I only skip one beat and then get back into the quick tempo of us.

He hits it again, but this time harder. I gasp and miss more than one beat. I completely hesitate. It's embarrassing and it ruins the feeling. He doesn't change speeds. He keeps going, faster and faster. I can't keep up. When he hits it for a third time and it feels intentional, I pull away. I study his presence and try to make sense of his unreadable expression in his eyes, shadowed by his hat.

But when he takes off the hat, I recognize the feeling immediately. The deep anger he had when he first saw my bruises is back. He's looking at the one on my chest he had just hit over and over again. It's becoming darker and more purple because of him.

I am so utterly embarrassed that I feel around me for my shirt, expecting to feel the scratchy moss of the rock. But my hand doesn't touch a rock. It doesn't touch the fabric of my t-shirt, either. It touches a cold, smooth ground that feels like glossy paper. I jerk my hand back and yelp, looking around. Matt hasn't taken his eyes off me, or moved at the least. His eyes are drilling holes into me. I pretend not to notice and look past him. All I see is white. I don't see white walls, or a white ceiling, or white furniture. I just see white and the glossy flooring we sit on.

I scamper away from Matt like a frightened dog and stand up. He stands up the same time as I do. The exact same time. He's still looking at me with that eerie look. I wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly shot lasers out of his eyes.

I turn to look behind me and see the same whiteness. I pivot back to Matt and he hasn't moved.

"Stop it," I say. My words echo over and over, but I don't know what walls they're bouncing from.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't react. He doesn't blink.

He just stares and breathes at a perfectly measured and timed pace.

I take a step back. I'm sweating, although it's not hot here. It's not cold, either. It's nothing.

"Matt, really. Stop it."

No reply. No reaction.

I stare into his blue eyes that I've always been so intrigued by. Right now, though, all I can see in them is anger. It's pure and real and dark.

I run.

I'm small and skinny and fast, faster than Matt. I know what I'm doing, but I don't know where I'm running to. I see nowhere to go. My speedy footsteps echo back from the unknown walls and jam themselves into my ears.

Then I start to hear the screaming.

It's a real noise, as real as the anger in Matt's eyes. I whip around and spin frantically, trying to find the source of the terrible noise. But there's nothing. There's just whiteness. But then, when my head starts to pound and I realize I can't hear my footsteps any more, I realize that the screams are coming from me. But my mouth isn't open and I don't feel anything coming out of me. Which means the Bad Side - and the Good Side (if it's alive)- have finally escaped me and are making sound that not only I can hear. It's a very real sound; it's bouncing back to me, too. But I don't know if there's anyone else here to hear it.

Is Matt chasing me?

When I run out of breath, I skid to a stop, slipping and falling on the smooth floor. I curl up into a ball and put my hands on my head, grabbing my hair, willing my brain to shut up. I close my eyes and cry, but I can't hear myself over the shrills.