Unidentified

Chapter Twelve

TRISTAN

Her gaze has been fixated on me for so long, that I've stopped counting the seconds. After telling her what I've been trying to keep from her, I knew she'd be pretty shocked. I know she was not expecting this. She expected something out of the ordinary, but not this. Maybe she thought I was some kind of drug dealer, or maybe that I've ever done something that brought me into jail. But no, it's that simple. The only thing I kept from her is the thing that causes me the most pain. So simple, yet not something you encounter every day.

Her face expression changes gently, but what I see now is that emotion that I hate.That one emotion that I even despite, especially when it is focused on me. Pity.

She closes the distance between us, her eyes still focused on mine. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her tone so soft and sweet that it irritates me. I say nothing, not knowing what I should say. She obviously notices and the moment she wants to touch me, I grasp her both wrists to avoid more contact between us. "Don't," I warn her, before abruptly letting her go. She looks at me surprised, but then gets herself back together, putting on a straight face. "I didn't know. I'm sorry that I pushed you to tell this," she sighs, laying her right hand on her forehead. "If I had known... If I had known that it was so awful I wou-"

"Alyssa, don't," I warn her again. I don't want her to continue talking and certainly not about this. "The last thing I need is pity from you. I've lived with it for nineteen years. I'm sure I can handle it." She wants to open her mouth to say something, to protest probably, but the words don't come out. She made a wise choice to shut up before she even started to talk. She just takes place on the couch, still staying quiet. I take this opportunity and immediately try to change the subject, not wanting her to try to ask something again.

I look at her from head to toe, noticing she's dressed pretty classy for a conversation like this. Typical rich people attire. "What's all the dressing up for?" I ask her, catching her attention. She looks at her clothes for a second, realizing what she's wearing. "Oh, I had some uhm, some dinner with my family and Roy's family," she explains to me and I huff, thinking about that asshole again.

"What?" she asks. "You're still dating that asshole," I mumble. "Yeah, I still am," she says, crossing her arms. "Don't get what you see in him," I say, before taking another sip of my drink. Man, I really should stop drinking... Or maybe not.

"Now you're the one who's being judgmental again. You don't even know him," she says, defending her so called amazing boyfriend. "Oh, I've seen enough of him and his father? Yeah, he's even a bigger asshole," I tell her. "Okay, well what is so bad about Roy?" she asks. You have got to be kidding me, right? What isn't bad about him? Well, maybe the fact that he's a spoiled, selfish and disrespectful dick!

"For one, he tried to rape you," I say, bringing up that story again. "He was..." she stops in the middle of her sentence, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "He was not trying to rape me."

"Then what was he doing?" I ask her, she wants to reply, but eventually shuts her mouth. "Thought so," I smirk, before taking yet another sip. It stays quiet for a while, but the more I drink, the more my mind starts to think about useless and weird questions about her. I don't even know why I'm waisting my time on talking to her, hell I don't even know why I told her what happened to me in the first place.

"Do you love him?" I suddenly ask her and her eyes slightly widen. "Why are you asking me that?" she asks, still taken of guard by my question. "I can be curious too, Princess. Now answer me, do you love him?" I ask her again, but she seems to not find an answer to my question. "That's a no," I mutter. "But of course! Otherwise I would not be with him!" she says. She starts to become pissed which is actually quite funny if you'd ask me. "Then why didn't you answer when I asked you the first time? You hesitated, meaning that you are not being honest with yourself," I add. "It's complicated," she sighs, leaning her head back. "Why? I have time," I say before I take place beside her on the couch. "It's just ... I love him, but our relationship has become so compelled that it doesn't really look like love anymore," she tells me. Okay, I do not understand. If she's so tired of her relationship, she could just end it, right?