Our fallen souls [EN] (High Enough) : VOLUME 1

18 - Joséphine & Blake

It had been a short night, and I could feel the scars of my descent. My jaw was killing me, and I'd only had three or four hours' sleep. Rising painfully, I approached the shutters to close them and protect myself from the aggressive light of the new day. The room plunges into semi-darkness, the old shutters letting in a few rays of light. I return to my bed, taking my phone with me to check my social networks. An exhausted sigh escapes me as I remember that I have to work this afternoon. I'm exhausted.

Suddenly, there's a loud knock on my door, echoing through the apartment.

"I'm coming! It's all right!" I exclaim as I scramble to my feet, dressed only in a T-shirt and panties. I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up completely, before opening the door. Someone rushes into my apartment, and I close the door behind them. In the darkness of the room, I can make out a silhouette. A few curls are visible in the rays of light. Blake is pacing back and forth in my living room, his head in his hands.

"What's going on?" I ask, stepping towards him.

"My father's coming. He... he... he... called me," he finally articulated in a trembling voice. He sits on the edge of my bed, and I kneel before him, listening to his words.

"He's going to... he's... going to kill me..." he murmurs, struggling to say the words.

The words freeze my blood. Seeing him in this state of panic breaks my heart. He's so vulnerable, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"What?" I whisper softly.

"He wants to kill me... he's coming to kill me... I came here because he won't find me..."

I have tears in my eyes. "Why does he want to kill you?"

"He's coming to finish the job he started years ago..."

He rises abruptly, and I recoil instinctively, overwhelmed by the tension in the room. He removes his shirt in front of me, and for a moment I don't understand what he's doing. Then, when he turns around, I see the deep scars on his back.

"Oh my God... Blake...," I murmured, staring at his marks.

Many small, deep scars dot his back. I slowly reach up and gently brush his scars with my fingertips. One is so deep that it creates a slight protuberance. He tenses slightly under my touch, but I continue, intrigued.

I knew he and I weren't so different.

Then, slowly, he turns around and sits back down on the edge of the bed. His face, partially visible, is one of despair. It seems empty, devoid of emotion.

I kneel down to face him.

"He started hitting me when my mother died of cancer... he'd take it out on me every night when I came home from school. He was drunk all the time. He fell into a heap of shit."

He now looks like a little boy who needed to be protected. His eyes mist slightly with tears. My heart breaks into a million pieces at what he's telling me. It all makes sense now, everything becomes clear.

"First he slapped me... then he hit me... then he used some kind of whip. All these shit scars, I'll carry them all my life... because of that bastard..."

"I'll never let him do that to you again," I say softly, trying to bring him some semblance of comfort.

He doesn't answer, he's trembling. I place my hands on his, clumsy in my attempt to comfort, but doing my best. "I don't find your scars hideous... It's your story... The hatred you feel towards him helps you to move forward, to defend yourself against the world."

Eyes downcast, I'm taken aback by my own words, realizing how difficult it is for him, but also for me, to understand and express all this. He meets my gaze, and suddenly there's an intense gleam in his eyes, as if a glimmer of hope has just illuminated a part of his soul that had previously been plunged into darkness. My heart palpitates with incredible intensity, the muffled beat echoing in my chest. His eyes scrutinize every detail of my face with captivating intensity. His pupils scan my lips, which tremble slightly in anticipation.