Storyteller

Chapter 1

Faith POV:

Have you ever loved a man with poison running through his veins, and a touch that marks you like the end of a cigarette? I stare at the purple and blue splotches on me that are becoming more and more prevalent. There's something a little beautiful about them. They're a sore display of sacrifice, and devotion.

He doesn't mean to be this way. I know he doesn't, but the lightness in his eyes is beginning to become engulfed in the darkness, the more frightened he gets. I want to be the one to save him, but I'm learning more and more now that I may not be the one to fix this, if this is an issue that can be fixed.

I hear him in the bathroom. He's breathing hard, quivering breaths. He's frustrated, and confused, fueling the fire. I know better than to intrude on him now. He's vulnerable, and scared. He can't know that I know how horrified he is.

A loud crash sounds from the bathroom, causing my stare to move away from the bruises, and toward the cracked door. I grow tense, the knot forming in my chest once more. I watch the shadows under the door move back and forth, while deciding if it's worth the consequences to go in and check on him.

I stand slowly, taking a steady breath, before confidently tip toeing into the bathroom. The door squeaks, before revealing shattered glass across the floor. Red drops are scattered across the white tile. I avert my eyes to him, where he stands grasping onto the counter for dear life, while staring at the remaining pieces of the mirror. His fist is covered with cuts, little pieces of glass sticking out of them. His hands tremble, while his rough knuckles turn white.

He spots me in the small piece of mirror that remains, and slowly turns his head to look at me. Tears stream from his eyes, while he pants. His bloodshot eyes look at me, seeming more exhausted than I recollect.

"It's okay, baby." I spit out, pushing the anxiousness to the back of my mind, in hopes of appearing strong and unaffected. He looks down at his bruised and cut knuckles. He has the hands of a fighter.

"I didn't mean to..." He cries, holding his hands out in front of him, looking at me to somehow heal him. I place my hands under his shaking hands, and wrap my fingers around his. Although my mind is screaming for me to run, I get close to him, our foreheads pressed together tightly while he continues to sob.

The only thing I can think about right now, is how he still wreaks of alcohol...

After what seems like a century, we finally depart the hotel in New York City and head toward the arena. Paparazzi swarm the limousine we sit in, but my turtleneck and dark sunglasses detours them from assuming anything. My ring is still on, and he's still clinging to my hand. All is well to the outside eye.

I watch the neon and white lights pass past the tinted window of the car. There's a prettiness to it all; the tall buildings, the unfamiliar people, and yet, quiet...

He doesn't look my in the eyes the entire trip, as he usually does after hitting me before a show. The next time he'll lay eyes on me, we'll be in front of twenty thousand people in one of the largest cities on earth, and I'll play the fool for one more night. He'll trick me with his smile once more, he'll get drunk, and then he'll use me like a drug, before the cycle begins again the next morning.

The long dark car stops behind the arena, releasing us by a metal double door to the stadium, which opens the second his foot touches the cement. I watch him walk ahead of me, embracing his bandmates while smiling and laughing. I quickly walk to the door, looking down to conceal any marks.

My manager awaits inside, her arms crossed, glaring at Tim. She knows what happened last night. Last night was the rare occasion, where it got bad enough that I had to call her. She showed up, and he stopped. She left, and he started right back up again, even more angry than before.