Stolen Love

Chapter 5

5

It's a warm morning. The sheets are damp with sweat and I feel mentally and physically exhausted. I must've had a nightmare, but I can't remember what it was about.

It probably wasn't important if I can't remember it though, maybe I don't want to. The light is shining brightly in the room, I don't want to open my eyes.i

Mom is probably going to freak if I lay in bed any longer. What day is it anyways?

I sigh, I just want to sleep and never wake up. But for some reason, I just can't find sleep again.

Might as well get up and get to work on my chores. I start to sit up but find I can't. Something is wrapped over my waist holding me in place. What the...?

My eyes shoot open. This isn't my bedroom, it's not the light blue wall or the lace far bed sheets. The wardrobes are not white and most importantly, that is not my arm draped around my own waist.

Without thinking, I let out an ear piercing scream. There is some rustling in the sheets next to me.

A guy shoots up. His brown hair is all messy from the tangle of sheets he was in and he is wearing a white t-shirt. His bright blue eyes looked startled and alert, almost protective. "Is everything all right?" He asks quickly scanning the room.

Then I remember, the nightmare I was having wasn't a nightmare, it's what happened to me yesterday, oh gosh.

All of a sudden, I jump out of the bed. "What are you doing in here?!" I cry.

He seems to understand what's going on now. He lays back down before answering, "Isn't it kind of obvious?" He yawns, "I'm sleeping."

"What are you doing in HERE?" I emphasize the here.

"It's my bedroom." He shuts his eyes. It looks like he is sleeping.

"No it's not. Leave."

"Don't want to," he peeks an eye open at me.

I cross my arms, "Then let me leave."

"Not gonna happen."

Seeing that I can't win, I stomp my way over to the love seat then sit down. I'm to tired to cry so I just start rubbing my temples.

"Your cute when your mad," he says.

How did he get in the bed without waking me up? I'm a really light sleeper. The food, he must've drugged it after all.

"You drugged me." I say as a statement more than a question.

"I crushed some sleeping pills in your water," he doesn't even look guilty, "I figured it would be easier for you to wake up next to me, than fight you the whole time before."

"So you drug me instead?" I cry, "I can never trust you ever again."

"You never trusted me in the first place," he laughs dryly. "I'm just trying to make this easier for you."

I know saying let me go would get me nowhere. So instead I say, "Can you please sleep in a different room?"

I expect him to look guilty and say sure, but instead he says, "No. End of discussion." His voice is cold and hard, it startles me.

We sit facing each other. I put on the best poker face I can muster, and so does he. His whole face is hard and dominating. I can't compete with it.

"I didn't do anything," he says quietly, "You can trust me, I'd never do anything to you without your consent."

Maybe it's the softness of his voice, or the lack of deception in his eyes, because I somewhat believe him. And that scares me. Should I really believe this handsome monster in front of me that I know hardly anything about? For all I know, he's got a closet full of skeletons somewhere. I'm not talking in a metaphorical sense, I mean actual dead people. People he killed.

An inner dispute is going on inside me leaving me speechless. I nod and come up with an excuse to leave. It's not my best idea, but it's the only thing that comes to mind, "Can I take a shower?"

"Yeah," he points to a dresser and wardrobe, "Your clothes are in there," he gets up and stretches, "I'll make breakfast. Any requests?"

I hate how he is acting as if this is completely normal. He's treating me like a princess. This isn't a fairytale, this is life. He needs to grow up. "Anything good," I say.

I wait for him to leave the room before I go to the dresser. All the clothes are my size. It's disgusting how he knows this, I shudder a bit.

I grab a new set of clothes, a cool t-shirt about running and a pair of basketball shorts. To me, it's the best and only thing to wear.

They are comfortable and loose. My favorite part though is that you are able to move around in them, so if you need to kick someone's butt or run, you're all ready to go.

Once I get in the bathroom, I lock the door behind me. There is a huge tub and a walk in shower next to it. One wall is covered by a mirror. The sink and toilet sit opposite of the tub and shower. The wall is a red and the floor is a cream tile.

I look at myself in the mirror and gasp. Scratches trail up my arms leaving a trail of pink faded streaks. My clothes are torn and have entire pieces ripped off of them in some areas. The hair on top of my head looks similar to a birds nest, it almost all fell out of my ponytail. There was a red spot on my cheek where he hit me. I touch it, it feels puffy. My blue eyes are red and puffy from all the crying I did. I hate how I was so weak, especially in front of him. Normally I would be horrified, even as a tomboy, I wouldn't go this far, but right now I'm proud. At least I can say I was fighting.

I turn the shower on and let it start to steam. The mirrors are making me feel uncomfortable, I won't even try try to get in until they are all fogged up.

While I wait, I unwrap the gauze on my hands. They are raw and sting when I touch things. Looking at how red they are makes them ache even more. I grit my teeth, it should be healed in a few days. Besides, I've had worse.

I make the water cooler before I step in. It still burns on my skin and I want to cry out because of how much my hands are stinging.

I wash up as quickly as I can, then get out. I get dressed quickly too, I just don't feel comfortable. Once dressed, I search the medicine cabinet beneath the sink for something for my hands.

I put some cream on that soothes the sting, then wrap them again. I brush my hair, and then find hair accessories in the medicine cabinet.

There are headbands, ponytails, clips, flowers that I will never wear, and my breath catches in my throat, bobby pins. Chris keeps the doors locked all the time, but if I can find an Allen wrench or a flathead screwdriver, I won't need to find his key.

I could pick the lock, Ryan and I spent weeks perfecting how to. He said, "You'll never know when you'll lock yourself out of your house, especially you Cocoa." Cocoa was short for Chocolate. He makes fun of how dumb I could be sometimes.

I feel a flicker of hope in me light in me. "Thank you, Ryan," I whisper to myself.

I put everything back. I've got to act the same, he can't know. When I get back in the room, Chris still isn't there.

Out of boredom, I turn the tv on. My breathing hitches when I see who's on the news.