Fascinating Villains

{56} - Open Wound

My facial expression must be reflecting that I am reminiscing about Colin and I's conversation, on that awful day, because he impulsively puts his right hand on my shoulder.

"Blue, I was being careful. I'd never put myself into any real danger. Don't worry."

I collect his hand within my left one, bringing it down to hold it between us. A smile pulls open my lips, born easily when I look into his gray eyes.

"I'm not worried. Some things are..." I repress a sigh, chuckling instead. "Just out of our control."

Leah has crossed her arms against the high waist hem of her minty dress. She inquires, "Was The Batman there?"

Cole shakes his head. "No, 'cause The Joker wasn't near the scene. From what I heard, he actually wasn't sighted at all. The weapons and accessories that were used were identified as his, so he's presumed to be behind everything."

Habitually, the Clown Prince of Crime boasts to the masses when he organizes large exhibits of violence. If he signed his mark on this tragedy without making a public appearance, I'm afraid that means his actions were only a small part of a bigger, more elaborate joke.

Leah's boyfriend and Scott interrupt our deeply cheerful and engagement-party-appropriate conversation. The first wraps a gangly arm across her shoulders, I notice his bowtie is the same shade of mint green as her dress. The latter steers our discussion towards the decorations.

"You should ask Mimi about them," he urges us, chomping on yaksik, "she designed all of it! It's not really my thing, but you should see her when she gets passionate about that stuff..!" An inadvertent grin, wide and giddy, stretches his mouth, regardless of the snack that fills it, exposing multiple grains of rice sticking to his teeth.

His fiancée appears by his side as if she was summoned by the mention of her nickname. Scott plops his arm over her shoulders as my coworkers and their partners gush about how beautiful the gathering is.

When Colin rests his right arm against my shoulders, the attention I am keeping on their exchange disintegrates. My innards clench in a painful knot while heat invades my skin.

I attempt not to think much of it. 

The gesture is small, yet his muscle is pressing on the nape of my neck. Consequently, I can feel every nerve in my body recoil, sending blaring distress signals to my brain.

I am tempted to shrug him off, but I doubt it would be effective AND go unnoticed. I don't want to embarrass him, I... Want him to remove his arm. Without making everything about me, while we're at his friends' engagement party. I don't mind explaining to him why I despise people encompassing my shoulders under their arm. But the moment is not right.

My body temperature feels like it's rising, pretty soon I will be considerably flushed. I bite into my pig-in-a-blanket to distract myself from the imminent swarm of fears that is bound to unfurl in my psyche, unless I calm my thrashing herd of thoughts.

The soft bread unexpectedly tastes dull, almost bitter, and it has the texture of gauze against my teeth. 

I force myself to keep chewing although the scent and the slimy consistence of blood are filling my mouth as my teeth cut through the tiny sausage. 

Visions of battered bodies creep up the back of my tongue, until I finish the small hors-d'oeuvre.

Every surface of my mouth is tingling, and when I swallow the otherwise normal snack, I feel nauseous as though I have been licking an open wound. I muster enough control not to retch, relieved to taste dough and processed meat lingering in my saliva.