Her

Part 22

 I'd had plenty of practice watching her and decoding her expressions, decoding her, so I knew when there was something wrong with her. I could see her hurt, and I hurt, too. I could feel her fear on her skin, and it grated against me as I held her. I could taste her desperation on her lips, and it burned into me as I kissed her. Look by look, moment by moment, kiss by kiss, hour by hour, touch by touch, day by day, I wheedled it out of her, and pieced together the story. Emotions that were cripplingly powerful burned through my veins with every detail I learned, but I couldn't not know. If I knew why she cried, maybe I could I could stop her tears.

They lay in bed, the bedroom dark, the light, fluffy comforter covering their bodies, drawn up tightly around her neck. She was in that in between place, where you're almost dreaming but aren't quite asleep yet. She was about to fall asleep, after a long day of teaching her creative writing class, when he rolled over, shaking the bed. Sighing softly, she tiredly shifted slightly and continued her quest for sleep. She was abruptly jerked out of that lovely sleepy place by a large, hot hand coming down semi-gently on her lower back. She twitched, startled, then slowly relaxed. “Are you awake?” he asked in a voice that was almost trying to be quiet, his hot breath blowing against the back of her neck. “Mmm.” she murmured, in a noncommittal, admirably patient tone. “C'mere, baby.” he murmured, his voice gravelly. “I'm tired babe, not tonight.” she breathed, wishing she was already asleep. “Come on,” he persisted, in what he clearly thought was a sweet, enticing voice. “Nuh.... no, it's late, c'mon hon, let's just go to sleep.” she answered, again. He made an odd noise in the back of his throat, and pressed up against her, wrapping his arm around her slender middle. She struggled halfheartedly to push him away, her hand shoving feebly against his chest. “Stop it.” she told him, her voice finally showing signs of impatience and alarm. “Please,” she whispered, as he rolled on top of her, hovering slightly above her. He planted his arms on either side of her shoulders, leering down at her with a toothy, triumphant, I-think-I'm-sexy grin. She pressed her head back into the bed as far as she could, leaning away from him. She wore a light, white threadbare nightgown, with no bra. He wore only his boxers, which he quickly slipped off with one hand. He now placed his knees on either side of her shins, still grinning as he ran his coarse hand slowly up her leg. She couldn't move, and didn't dare to close her eyes, knowing there was no point in fighting or yelling. He hooked one finger on the hem of her white panties, dragging them down around her ankles before tossing them to the floor. He roughly peeled back her nightgown, pushing it up around her chest. She squirmed, bile rising in her throat as he pressed himself down onto her, into her. She closed her eyes at last as his face neared hers, his hot, wet, rough mouth forcing itself down onto her soft, delicate rosebud lips.

When she awoke, he was gone, and she just lay in her bed, unmoving, her eyes closed. She felt the bruises on her arms, the pain below her abdomen, her swollen lips. After another thirty seconds, she opened her eyes to the harsh morning light, and sat up. She tiredly picked up her underwear from the floor, tossed them in the hamper, and got dressed for class. “At least she'll be there today; she never misses a day,” she thought. Even if the world stopped spinning and was turned upside down and inside out, I know that she will always be there. She always is.