Polar Opposites

Matty

TW - sensitive topics around self harm 

She looks up as I open the door, but almost immediately looks away again, refusing to make eye contact. I lock the door behind me so as not to have a repeat of earlier. Without turning back towards me, she sticks her middle finger up in my direction.

'Charming.' I drawl.

She stands up and stares me down at that.

'Just because we are inside this time does not mean I'm afraid to fight you again.' she spits.

'We both know how that would end.' I say coldly. 'But anyway, I didn't come to make war.'

She lets out a small snort of incredulity.

'Contrary to your beliefs, I am not a monster,' I say quietly.

'You act like I should expect that.' She says, 'As if I can take your word. After all that your father did to me, my family, and our whole community. You're not any better either. You take pride in hurting people, in making them feel bad about themselves, just so that you can feel better about what you've been born into.'

'You believe that because of what you've been told.' I say. 'What you've been told by your bastard of a father.'

With that she lunges at me, swiping left and right like an enraged tiger as she tries to inflict damage. I'm taken back initially, and a few of her hits land, but quickly I've got her arms behind her back, and I throw her onto the bed. It wasn't my intention, but her head smashes back against the wall and she shrieks with pain as it makes contact, before crumpling onto the bed below. A trickle of blood runs down her temple, making her hair sticky, clumping together in a clotted mess. I feel a slight twinge of regret, as this isn't exactly going to build her trust, but part of me is proud of what I've done, as it shows I am not influenced by my emotions.

She lifts her head up groggily, and I see the tears brimming in her eyes that she furiously blinks away.

'Go away.' she mutters with the most strength she can muster.

'I would love to, trust me, but I need to clear up the mess I have made.' I reply.

She continues to look at me with burning hatred in her eyes.

'Stand up.' I order. Surprisingly she does so, and I lead her over to the door. Her eyes flick to the key I hold in my hand that I'm about to use to unlock the door. It doesn't go unnoticed, and so I grab her wrist to make sure she doesn't run. She squirms, but my grip is strong, and she is weak from her injury.

I open the door and pull her out into the corridor with me, before opening the door to my room, and dragging her in behind me. I let go of her wrist and lock the door behind us.

I push her onto a chair and go through to my bathroom to get an emergency supply of plasters and some cleaning salve. When I re-enter the room she's looking around, eyes wide in awe, taking in the details of possibly the first home-like place she has seen in days. Her innocent reverie breaks when she spots me, and her eyes turn cold again.

'Stay still,' I say.

I lean forward and wipe the wound on her head clean with the salve and place the plaster on top. She flinches underneath my touch, but doesn't move away.

'Thank you.' she says sincerely. 'But please, why do you keep helping me?'

I bite back a witty response, remembering I'm supposed to keep my hatred subtle, and force myself to look into her eyes.

'I'm not a monster.' I repeat. 'And neither is my father.'

She shakes her head as if dissatisfied by my response.

'It's true.' I push, 'You can't believe the... rumours. He does care for people.'

She still looks at me doubtfully, so I decide to tell her more.

'I'm not his son.' I say. Her eyes immediately snap up in attention. 'He found me, saved me, I suppose, when I was just two years old. He didn't kill me, like you and your family would expect him to. Instead he raised me with love and compassion, and called me his son.'

Conflicting emotions flit over her face.

'It's just so that you can do his dirty work,' she says, 'And clearly he raised you wrong if this is the type of person you've become.'

She acts spiteful, but I can see a hint of sympathy in her eyes.

'You just don't want to believe that you could be wrong.' I say with realisation. 'Because then you would realise that your version of the truth isn't real.'

She takes a sharp inhalation at my suggestion, and I can tell I've hit a nerve.

'Listen,' I say reluctantly, 'Let me do something to show you. What can I do to prove my moral self to you? And no, I am not letting you go.'

Her jaw practically falls to the floor in disbelief, as if kindness is a new concept to her. If I'm honest, I shocked myself too, but it's too late to turn back now. She thinks for a moment, and then begrudgingly looks at me.

'Clothes.' she says simply. 'A shower. Anything that will make me feel clean.'

'Fine.' I say. 'There's a shower in my bedroom.'

'Really, you're just going to let me use it?' she says incredulously.

'Go before I change my mind.' I grumble. She walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind her. I shudder to think of her in my own space, and turn to my book left on my bed to distract myself. It's not long before I become engrossed, and am then rudely interrupted shortly after by Lana.

'I need clothes please.' she says. I panic then, as this is quite literally the first time a woman has set foot in this house for at least 18 years, and rummage in my chest of drawers to find something. I pull out an old t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. I push them through the crack in the door and scramble back to my bed, feigning nonchalance. A minute later, and she emerges.

The clothes hang off her loosely, her bones clearly visible through the shirt I gave her, collarbones jutting out at sharp angles. Her hair hangs down her back, dripping water into a small puddle on the floor. But what I can't look away from are her arms. Once hidden by long sleeves, tens of scars across her forearms are revealed. Each one cuts deep, raised off her skin in a purple welt, positioned almost methodically. She notices me looking and places them behind her back.

'You can look away now.' she says, almost sadly.

'Wh-what happened to you?' I falter.

She says nothing in response, not even gracing my question with a glare.

'Did- did you do that to yourself?' I ask.

She again doesn't reply but this time it tells me everything.

'You're a psychopath,' I exclaim, 'You really are.'

She looks away from me, and I notice a slight bit of hurt in her eyes.

'I don't expect you to understand.' she whispers.

'Your life is perfect!' I spit. 'You're the daughter of the most respected man in your town.'

'You don't know anything about my life!' she cries, 'You're too self-centred to realise that. One day of being supposedly kind, and you've already messed it up. Because you are malicious. You are a malicious, malicious person, and you do not understand other people's pain.'

I've heard enough, and grab her shoulder, propelling her out into the corridor. I pull open the door and push her inside.

'You're insane.' I say, and slam the door shut, clicking the lock into place.

I walk away, trembling with some sort of strange adrenaline that I didn't expect to feel, but before I close my door behind me, I hear her sobs come streaming through the door.