What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Julia Michaels - Issues.
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I LIFT MY HAND UP TOWARDS THE double doors, ready to knock, but I hesitate, bringing my hand down, for the umpteenth time.
Christ, why do I feel so scared?
I should be angry at this...this arrogant, conscienceless man who left me under the rain, bruised my cheeks just to wringe an apology out of me last night and then proceeded to tell me to sleep outside, not scared of him.
I probably know why I'm feeling petrified in this moment. It's because I'm just coming back from Markham, regardless of the fact that he didn't give me any permission to leave. But I was just so mad and unwell yesterday that I had to leave his estate to go take proper care of myself.
Spending the night and a huge part of today at Amara's—of course I didn't sleep outside last night; I couldn't, it was so cold—really did that for me. I feel better and healthier than I did yesterday.
Right now however—after going back to the estate and finding a traumatized Jerry who said that he got punished with a month without pay, sporting tears in his eyes—I'm in front of his office doors with a plastic bag in my left hand, but I might as well be before God on Judgement Day.
The polythene bag contains the printouts he asked me to finish up yesterday. I did all the corrections on them late this morning with both Amara's and Nessa's helps before we decided to talk and catch up on what's been going on with one another.
I wipe the beads of sweat forming on my forehead due to my growing frustration, preparing to knock again.
As I lift my hand toward the doors, they are swung open ignorantly from the inside.
I freeze. My eyes form O's. I swear my stomach somersaults and my heart begins to pound against my flesh through my ribcage, denting my skin as it contracts and relaxes.
I'm face to face with none other than the beast himself. He's in a black, three-piece, designer suit—a lighter shade than his heart of course—and his green eyes are piercing mine, unshakeable and hard.
No doubt there—only irony—but the beast is fucking handsome, and tall. I'm straining my neck to look him in the eye, hoping he can't see the fear in my eyes.
"Where have you been?" Rough, deep, carnal, like he just finished a tumbler of whiskey in there.
It's like I'm in a trance because my subconscious keeps screaming at me to look away from that murderous gaze, but I just can't find it in me. "Markham."
Added to the fact that I was coming down with a cold, I'd never been degraded in my life as much as Mr. Ash had done to me last night; that's why I left. I packed lightly and took a late night bus out of the city to clear my head in my best friend's house.
