Opaque

15 | Cold-Blooded

"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Chapter Fifteen

How does one explain the inexplicable to someone? Where does one start? There was no way I could have explained the object in her hands, the significance of it, without turning back the clock. Even if there was a small possibility that she would understand and that I would be able to explain properly, there was no way I was parting from my secret, making it public knowledge, this soon.

Actually, scratch that. There was no way I was going tell anyone my secret - ever! I shuddered at the thought of someone seeing my soul, naked and barren.

"Where did you find that," I asked her, my palms balled up in an amateur fist, my eyes slit as I waited for her response.

"Under your bed. It was crushed under the plastic boxes," she said, caressing the object and admiring its beauty, unaware of the damage she was causing.

My body grew warmer as she stood there innocently, as if she was a naïve lamb. I dug my nails into my palms.

"Why would you leave something so precious on the floor," she asked, her eyes curiously boring a hole into me.

I bit my tongue. Not only was she in the wrong by picking up an object that didn't belong to her, but she also had the audacity to question me about it as if I was going to spill the truth onto the floor. Well, I was no weak-minded criminal and I was not easy to manipulate into confession.

I was born to be a predator, not a prey. Keeping that thought in mind, I walked up to her in two big strides, instead of small steps, and snatched the object out of her hand.

"Don't ever take anything out from under my bed," I told her, my eyes lethal, my face serious. I moved away from her, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"Why are you over-reacting," she asked, crossing her arms on her chest.

That, right there, was a defensive mechanism, one that people employed only when they felt cornered and victimized, and the only reason I knew that was because I had done the same on various occasions. It was only a matter of time before her own pride, which she usually kept well-hidden, came out to the surface and fought my own.

"I'm not over-reacting - I just don't want people in my personal space," I said, my teeth baring and lashing at her like a hungry, territorial, lion.

"You're over reacting - again," she said, emphasizing the last word.

I shook my head, "I'm sorry you think I'm over-reacting, but I can't stand anyone touching my things-so excuse me if I'm upset."

She sighed, "You know, there are times when you really confuse me, Angie. You refuse to let me in to your world ­- it's like you're guarding a deadly secret - and when I don't understand something or do something wrong, you pounce on me. So excuse me, for thinking that perhaps we had finally become friends."

I clenched my palms as I stood there, resembling a statue, as her words entered my thick skull. I felt drenched, head to toe, in water. Her words were a slap to my face, a wakeup call, an icy bucket of water - all of the above and much more.

I inhaled air deeply, trying to clear my head and body of the rage that had blinded me. I had not handled the situation well. I clenched the object in my fist, but it would not break.

I counted to ten in my head, slowly, and as I reached the last number, I exhaled and with the removal of air from my lungs, I released the frustrations, the memories that this object brought up, the pain I felt in the middle of my chest, and the anger I had pent up inside of me, which I had childishly vented on her.