For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

13.Whose Fault?

(Improvised version)

The burning sensation coursing through my body was all too familiar. The pain was so intense that even the thought of moving made me groan.

I tried to lift a finger, and a sharp jolt of agony shot through me. When I attempted to turn my head to the right, the searing pain in my shoulder made me wince.

My throat felt like sandpaper, raw and parched, but I forced myself to sit up despite the pain.

Before I could manage more than a feeble attempt, hurried footsteps approached, and a firm but gentle hand pushed me back down onto the bed.

"Don't get up," a voice said, soft yet commanding.

With great effort, I pried my heavy eyes open. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that seemed to dance around us. As my vision adjusted, I saw a face leaning over me—a face I recognized all too well.

A torrent of memories from earlier flooded my mind, each one more painful than the last. Panic seized my chest, and I began to hyperventilate, trying to scoot away from him.

My body trembled with fear, the nightmare of what he had done still fresh, the terror of what he might do now gripping me tightly. Was it over? Was it really over? Or was he waiting for me to wake up to continue his cruelty?

The endless night seemed to stretch on forever, with no dawn in sight. I tensed when he placed his large hand on my shoulder, stopping me from moving further.

I flinched at his touch, every nerve screaming at me to get away. His chest was bare, and he was only wearing pants, making my heart pound with dread.

"Please... no more," I begged, my voice barely a whisper, hoarse from all the screaming. It hurt to speak, each word scraping against my raw throat, reminding me of the horror I had endured.

He didn't respond immediately, but instead brought a glass of water to my lips. My body hesitated, instinctively resisting any act of kindness from him.

Yet, my desperate thirst won out. Supporting my back with his other hand, he helped me sit up slightly. I gulped down the cool liquid, feeling it soothe my parched throat.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, savoring the simple relief, but that moment of calm was brief.

Placing the glass back on the nightstand, he picked up a bowl of porridge and sat at the edge of the bed again. He held the spoon near my lips, urging me to eat. I stared at him, feeling my stomach churn with a mix of hunger and revulsion.

I wondered what kind of sick game he was playing now. What did he want from me? He had already shown me his true face—there was no reason to trust this sudden tenderness.

His eyes, now a deep sapphire blue instead of their usual golden hue, met mine.

There was a strange softness in them, but I couldn't bring myself to believe it. The memory of his earlier cruelty still clung to me like a dark shadow.

What was his motive? Why this sudden change? Every fiber of my being screamed not to trust him.

"Eat. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning," he said calmly, holding the spoon closer to my lips.

"Y-Yesterday?" I whispered; my voice barely audible.

How long had I been unconscious?

"Yes, after..." he trailed off, looking almost uncomfortable, as if the words were stuck in his throat. "You scared me, amina. You weren't even breathing," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare hint of concern.