Before the Sun

Chapter Eleven- The Exception

Nikolai

There is a line I walk. One side holds my professionalism, and the other guards my personalism. My emotions, my humour, my memories, my personality and very other minuscule thing that makes up the entirety of myself. The line is thin, tricky and difficult to walk down. It's a border between doing something for your customer, because you know it's what is best for them, and doing something because your own selfish emotions invaded your judgement. It seems I'm walking it like a tightrope.

I'm waiting for the heavy weight of my actions to come crashing down on me, and yet, it never does. The consequences of my attack, the unprofessional nature in which I acted- none of it seems to matter to me as of now. Only my client matters, only Sofia. Her wobbling bottom lip and welling eyes, the frightened pink of her cheeks and trembling hands. I can't spare a second glance to the sputtering man on the floor. I can't care about the splitting cuts on my fists and the yelling pain of the wounds. Because she's not talking, nor moving. And I can't decide wether I would rather her be shouting at me. I can't decide wether I would be happier to have her scream in my face, to have her yell how erratic and stupid I am.

"Sofia,"

I find myself uttering, a finger pointing at the professor on the floor. Her eyes are big, wide with everything close to fear, but she looks to me.

"How long has this been going on?"

I lower my voice, my tone an inch louder than a whisper. She bites the inside of her cheek, teeth shoving back the voice I want to hear. Her cheeks are hollow, quivering as she chokes on the cries attempting to escape. Her eyes blink too many times, wishing away tears with the repetitive motion. Still, she doesn't speak.

"How long, Sofia?"

I ask again, my tone harsher, firmer. Her gaze diverts to her professor, his coughing growing louder as the haze of my punches begins to clear for the man.

"Two."

She whispers. The word is just loud enough for me to hear. My eyebrows tug together, back straightening.

"Two years."

She reiterates. I feel a rage. It's consuming and overbearing, and the entirety of it is directed towards the man at my feet. There's a need to ruin him looming above my head. It sends a fire of adrenaline through my veins, down the corridors of my limbs and into my fists. I want nothing more than to end him. And so just as I did moments ago, I come tumbling off the line, disintegrating into the realm of selfish unprofessionalism.

"Two years ago you were eighteen, barely a legal adult."
I'm muttering, Adam's apple bobbing as I push down the fury swelling within me. Once again, Sofia remains silent.

"Two years ago you were practically a child, and him? What is he- thirty?"

My voice raises, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I don't mean to direct my anger to her, not at all. And there's not a part of me that feels enraged by her. I feel rage for her. For Sofia then and now. For every version of Sofia that has had this poison of a man in her life.

"Thirty two."
She sniffs, a shaking hand raising to swipe a piece of straightened hair behind her ear. There's a silence that follows her words. A moment of her anticipation, my contemplation and the professors fear. I'm not sure what part of me acts when I grab the man by his collar, the blood of my knuckles staining his porcelain shirt. His eyes are surged into a rigid state of alarm, widening before snapping shut.

"Stop, stop! Please stop!"
He gasps out, legs flailing in a futile attempt to free himself from my grip. My jaw clenches tight enough for a ringing to appear within my ears, a constant blare of searing red vexation.