A Gun To My Heart

13

"Don't call me princess," I snarl as I stand up from him and stumble backward. He chuckles and takes the knife away from my firm grip, placing it back on the table. I furrow my brows as the thoughts from my father flood back, taking over my mind.

"Please don't do this, Alora"

Pictures of his empty, brown eyes fill my vision, and I feel like I want to scream. My hands wrap carefully around my throat, and a part of me wants to slap some sense into Aries.

"Don't do that to me ever again," I press out falling to the floor, fighting the memories, and the pain expanding more and more, pressing hard against the walls in my head. He rushes to me, sitting down carefully observing my reaction, wondering what he did wrong.

I can't focus on anything other than my throat closing, making it harder for me to breathe.

"Please don't do this."

I put my hands over my ear covering them, hoping I won't hear his weak words anymore. But it doesn't work. It's like the words always find a way to slip through my slender, weak fingers, slowly making their way into my head. It's making me crazy.

I feel Aries's arms wrap around me, and the strange sensation around my throat slowly disappears. The words in my ear, gradually die out. The pictures of him lying dead on the floor, vanish.

As the visions slowly disappear, and I start to see the room again, I pull my hand out in a sharp movement, ready to make Aries feel some stinging pain on his cheek. Quickly, he immediately grips my wrist so it can't happen.

I jerk his hand away from my touch and we stand up from the ground. He walks over to his bookcase not saying a word, with his back facing me. I walk closer to the same knife I threatened him with, only to be interrupted.

"What are you doing, Maeve?" He asks me strictly. He talks to me like I'm some dog he has to put in place. It disgusts me. I narrow my eyes and scowl at him as he turns around.

"What was that?" He asks again angry and confused, pointing at the knife barely brushing against my skin. I break eye contact, embarrassed by my actions.

I felt bad for him twenty minutes ago, and now I'm here almost hurting him with a knife,

again.

"It was your fault," I spit out massaging my temples, hoping it will remove the throbbing headache carving its place in my head. He sighs loudly and annoyed, sitting at his desk made of glass.

"How was it my fault, that you suddenly attacked me when I walked into my room?"

"I never attacked you, dummy, " I sneer at him. Wanting him to see my anger. He taps his pen on his desk intensely, while he's carefully picking out the correct words to use.

"Then tell me why you pointed that knife at my throat. Ready to slit it any moment?" He tries so hard to cover up the bubbling anger in his voice, while he continues to tap the pen onto the desk.

Tap ... tap ... tap.

He doesn't succeed, and I see right through his mask. He's confused. Furious. Irritated.
I roll my eyes, annoyed by his way of thinking.

"It's because of your-"

grip.

The last word I couldn't press out of my ridiculous mouth. It would make him want to ask questions. And I wouldn't be able to answer them. Not right now.

For him, I probably look like some stupid idiot, not knowing what to say. Although in reality, I'm considering if I should tell him or not. Tell him that the grip he had around my throat seconds ago, made me remember the memories.

The memories I had about the night my father died, revive themselves, only for me to go through it once again. He sees the debate I'm having from within and rises from his seat as he rolls his eyes.

He steps closer, stopping an arm's length away from me. Respecting the space I need to keep my head cool. The space I need to put out the dark flame inside me. The dark fire that was here just a moment ago, waiting until it can be released again just like some monstrous beast. Wanting to rip him apart.

"Tell me where it went wrong," he says softly, showing that he understands my pain. He watched me on the floor, fighting my inner demons from taking over. He saw me in great pain.

"The grip," I mumble, meeting his eyes. I try my best to try to read them, but it doesn't work. They confuse me. Showing thousands of different emotions at a time. It's like a wild hurricane, collecting everything on its path. I can't see one emotion. The only thing I detect is a huge cluster. A complex mess.

"Ok, I'll keep that in mind," he replies going back to his desk, taking a seat in the comfortable chair. I know that wasn't the sentence he wanted to reply with. He wanted to ask me why the grip made me react that way, but he knows I wouldn't have answered the question.

It would go to waste. So instead, he replied with that. I sit at his perfectly made bed, observing the room while no one's talking. It has a gray, boring color scheme. The bookcase is giant, filled with a huge amount of books.

The floor is made out of marble. Very cold. Enormous windows are showing a blue ocean and the waves crashing onto the shore. He probably looks through the windows a lot. I would. Even though the waves are always moving one way or another. Always crashing onto the shore. Always flowing with strength, force, power. It still brings stillness into my mind.

I turn to him, only to see that his eyes also are fixed on the ocean. I wonder what he's thinking about. How many thoughts that are filling his head on the daily basis. It never looks like he thinks the way I do. It doesn't look like he struggles with intrusive thoughts at all. He looks calm as a whole.

But seeing his acting in the museum. How easy he could pull it off. How trustworthy it looked like. Maybe it's like that now too. Maybe he looks calm, unbothered, but inside his head, it's like the big waves right outside the window.

Crashing into each other, attacking each other, challenging each other in his head. Tearing down everything. Shredding his soul into small pieces.

Slowly, little by little.

Maybe it's just before he collapses. Crumbles.

Or maybe not.

Perhaps I'm just overthinking again.