Darling, Clementine

7| A sleepy lullaby

The room was enveloped in an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of my stifled sobs echoing through the air. The two men calmly lifted Grant's lifeless body, their expressions void of any emotion. No trace of grief, pity, or remorse marred their faces. They wore masks of nonchalance and normalcy, masks I knew all too well. I had mastered the art of feigning emotions, concealing my true self for years. To find one emotion wasn't a talent but an amazing gift solely passed by trauma. Trauma: a deeply distressing or disturbing experience. Trauma was waking up every day knowing the desire to cease breathing grew stronger. Trauma was the way people looked at me with such pity and guilt laced in their eyes. Trauma was knowing that you had to continue, living a life that wasn't worst living. Trauma was the mirror image of depression, anger, loath, sadness, etc which I have been plagued with for years. Trauma was the consequence, of treading water, when you can't swim. Trauma was the consequence of treading water when you have the inability to say no.

"Clementine, was it?" Valentino finally inquired, an eternity of silence passing between us. He stood next to the pool of blood that painted Grant's carpet. His eyes bore into mine, a sinister blend of curiosity and malevolence. Unfazed by the injustice he had wrought, he cared not for a worthless soul. Grant was merely a man who dared to exchange money with one possessing immense power. But the way this man carried himself, sent waves of pure masculinity and power. I nodded my head, hoping that he would think I was mute and let me escape. "Use your words," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, resonating with a richness that echoed in the depths of my being. I attempted to speak, but a sob escaped, rendering me powerless. And rightfully so, for he had just committed a cold-blooded murder, yet the knowledge of my name was what I couldn't understand. I had not muttered my name to him, because I'd been crying but still... He advanced toward me with deliberate steps, each one echoing a predatory rhythm. It was as if he relished the pursuit, a hunter closing in on his unsuspecting prey. Frantically, I began to wave my hands, the memory of sign language resurfacing in a desperate attempt to stop his advance towards me. Undeterred, he continued his measured approach, observing the fluid dance of my hands forming signs. His relentless movement only ceased when he stood mere feet away, casting a looming shadow over my trembling figure. As he loomed over me, a giant in both stature and menace, he remarked, "Playing the mute card is a clever move. Yet, you threw up the peace sign twice, suggesting a not-so-fluency in sign language that perhaps you're reluctant to admit." His declaration was accompanied by a raised eyebrow. "And sign languaging 'go, go, go,' my dear, won't be enough to make me leave, amore," he declared, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, like glinting shadows, traced a path down my silhouette, casting an aura of dark allure.

He knew sign language. I'm fucked.

"To answer your question, my name is Clementine," I whispered, my gaze fixated on my tear-stained feet, unable to meet his unwavering gaze. I wanted to cry and throw up. I wanted to drown in my tears. I needed to escape. I needed him away from me. Once again, the room descended into silence. Oh, how this silence suffocated me, its weight threatening to crush me before he ever could. "Look, I won't tell anyone. It's not that I cling desperately to life, but to be quite frank, I'm not ready to die. I still have plans and dreams, however feeble they may seem, to accomplish. I desire to laugh until tears stream down my face, to smile without pretense, and to dance in the rain for sheer happiness, not to drown in its tears. I ache for genuine hugs, not born out of pity but rooted in love. I need to be cherished until the very end, to move forward because my happiness deserves that chance. I seek peace and an end to the burdensome weight I carry. I desire to stop being the girl that everyone pities. Understand, I am not pleading, I am not begging for mercy. I am demanding you, if I am must die, let it be by my own hands, " I demanded desperately, my words tumbling out in a frenzy. Silent tears stormed down my cheek harder and faster with every word that flew from my mouth. I watched as his face remained emotionless. Yet his body showed tension.