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"Turning our romantic evening into destruction? How charming," his voice dripped with mockery, igniting the fire of anger inside me. But despite my rage, fear gripped me tighter. He moved toward me, and instinctively, I stepped back, only to be met with sharp, searing pain shooting up from my foot.
"Ahh" I gasped, clutching the table for support as another shard of glass pierced deeper into my flesh. He approached, my eyes squeezed shut from the pain, and I didn't even realize how close he had gotten.
"Why aren't you wearing any footwear?" he asked, his tone indifferent. I couldn't answer, too consumed by the physical and emotional agony coursing through me. Without warning, he lifted me effortlessly, a small gasp escaping my lips. Before I could protest, I was already seated on the couch
Holding my foot in my hands, I examined the wound, one jagged piece of glass was lodged deep in my skin. Tears spilled from my eyes as if the emotional torment wasn't enough, now my body was suffering too. I reached for the glass, desperate to pull it out.
"Don't," he commanded, kneeling in front of the bed. His hand wrapped around my foot, firm yet unsettling, and I immediately tried to pull away, not wanting him to touch me in any way. But he held me steady, his grip unrelenting.
"I'll do it myself," I muttered weakly, but he ignored me, his fingers moving toward the glass. I winced, trying to pull away again, the tears falling freely now.
"You're such a crybaby," he remarked, amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced at me.
I turned to glare at him, the rage bubbling up again.
"I'm not a crybab- Ahh" My scream tore through the room as he swiftly pulled the glass from my foot, and in instinct, I grabbed his shoulder for support, his muscles hard against my hand.
"You are," he said with an arrogant smirk, reaching for a bottle of medicated alcohol. The sight of it filled me with dread, a bitterness welling inside as he prepared to clean the wound.
"Just put the bandaid," I pleaded softly. I hated this, hated the way medical treatments stung more than the wound itself.
He said nothing, simply began cleaning the wound with the stinging liquid, making me scrunch my face in pain, more tears spilling over.
"Stop! I'll do it myself," I tried to snatch the cotton from him, as I always did in doctor's offices when the sting became unbearable. But he simply pressed the cotton harder, making me wince in pain.
"Ah-give it to me. Y-you don't know how to do it! I'll do it myself," I protested again wincing, reaching for the cotton, but he silenced me with a single cold look.
"If-ah-if you think you can intimidate me with those eyes, you're wrong," I muttered, gripping the bedsheets tightly. Finally, the torture ended as he placed the bandaid over the wound.
