When Time Ran Crooked

60 hours, 48 minutes and 7 seconds until

"Are you going to say something?" He asked.

"Pardon?"

His back was still to me, but I could tell that he was glaring at me. The air was filling with a tension that seemed to radiate from him, his stare sharp enough to slice it. I wanted to fade away into the sheets around me, to wrap myself up in them like a cocoon so I could come out to something beautiful (namely: me).

"Well, you made it very clear that you were eavesdropping," he reasoned, his tone clipped. "Is there something you wanted to say, or do you just like to watch me squirm?"

I frowned, looking away from him. Even though he wasn't looking at me, I could feel those blue stormy eyes beating down on me, absorbing my every movement like a hawk watching a lone fish glide underneath the waves.

"Claude . . ."

"Bea," he imitated.

"Don't be like that," I said, quietly. I didn't want to beg.

"Like what?"

I ignored his question, because he knew. "I know that this is probably hard for you to talk about. I get it, I really do. This is my job, my profession, to help people who are struggling with issues like yo-"

"I don't need your help," he interrupted me. The worst part was that he no longer sounded angry at me and that was always the worst type of anger. A rage so quiet that it could slink through your veins unnoticed as it slowly poisoned you with its vile venom. With Claude, the silent fury seemed to be embedded in every clipped phrase that escaped his mouth, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, his bones. I wished he would yell at me.

"Claude, I think-"

"No. I don't care what you think, Bea, because at the end of the day, you have no right to talk about me like you know what I want or need," he said. "You don't know me. We are strangers, remember?"

 Strangers.

I sampled the word on my tongue. It tasted like an oyster, like a sharp string of salty sea before descending down my throat at a pace so leisurely I could feel its life passing away as I swallowed it down. And then it was gone. We were both gone.

"I'm sorry," I said, quickly, still not looking at him. I unwrapped myself from my covers, instantly wishing that I could disappear into that cocoon, even if it seemed that everything beautiful cringed away from me. "I was out of line. You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good" was all he said in response. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

I wanted to move. I wanted to leave. I didn't want to be behind him, staring at the clothed layer of his back. I wanted to be in front of him. I wanted to grab him and make him look at me and shake his shoulders until he stopped looking at me with those icy blue eyes that could freeze me just by blinking. I didn't want to look at him.

"Good," he said, again, after a moment. Claude stood up now, running his hands through his hair. I could only imagined what his face looked like, rigid fury shaped out of the ice block of his face. It only took a moment before he reached the door and was out of the room.

I stared at the door. The long mahogany rectangle with its gentle contours and what appeared as a small ink blot for a doorknob. I wondered if his hands were stained when he opened the door. I wondered what else of Claude was stained.

I blinked a couple times, glancing around me. I didn't know how long I had been gawking. The light in the room seemed to be at the same level, yet I could feel that time had passed through the stiffness of my bones.