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Caring Coldly (Cryaotic) Chapter 2

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.” 

― André Gide, Autumn Leaves

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Before I could walk the distance down the hall to knock on his door, he opened it himself.

His eyes widened as he stood still, staring at me in shock. Then he whipped his head behind him, then back at me. From this angle, I couldn't see what he was hiding. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't.

I watched him walk back and shut the door abruptly. I was also still in shock, and eyed him while he slightly opened his door then softly close it again. How strange.

He finally turned to me again, his eyes screaming something like mystery or refusal. What was going through his head? Was there something he didn't want to tell me?

He then jerked his thumb behind him as if saying "I'll be leaving now," and walked swiftly to the metal staircase and jogged down it. I followed his back with my gaze until he disappeared around the corner to his car. He was going somewhere, but where?

I turned around as well, stiff and amazed by such little communication yet so much understanding. How was it that by a simple look of the eye that I could read what he wanted to tell me? Why was his shock so evident, and he didn't even try to hide it? It seemed like he was tired, or in a rush. Maybe something troubled him. 

Maybe I had troubled him.

The tempurature in my room, or the feeling in it was unusual. Something was off, or not right. I was tempted to lean my ear against the wall again to hear what he was saying, something to clue at what he wasn't telling me. This isn't right. Something is upsetting him. Maybe there's nothing that is upsetting him, and I'm just reading his face wrong.

Why won't we talk? What if that deep, slightly accented voice was his voice? Where was he from, and what is his name? So many questions, yet I wouldn't get the answer.

I let my eyes switch from side to side, corner to corner and wall to wall in my dark room. Dim moonlight was the only thing that illuminated my desk, chair and sheets.  I wanted to know so many things, but neither of us used language. How could I know if we didn't exchange words? I can only know his emotions, and he knows mine. That's just how it works.

I shifted my position and faced my left wall, keeping my eyes closed this time. Faint sounds-- almost silent-- whispered at the right end of this room. The man is doing something, but I don't know what. He doesn't want me to know. I shouldn't know.

I just need to sleep; I have tomorrow morning ahead of me. It's hitting midnight right now. The man should be sleeping right now, too, and I'm over thinking things. I just need to rest.

3... "No," I whispered as I watched the ticking time bomb slowly meet it's end. I was in Washington D.C., except the White House was different. The top part was just a square, and there was a plain old wooden door as the entrance and exit. There was no red carpet or pictures of presidents.

2...  I braced myself, ready for the impact. I'm going to die today, without anyone here to experience it with me. I think I saved the world. Now I'm going to have to pay for cheating it's death.

1.

Woah.

Wait a second, that's not the president's desk, it's my dresser. I'm not standing up, either, I'm laying down. Oh god, I'm a sweaty, hot mess.

I realized that it wasn't real, but instead just a bad dream. I exhaled and threw the covers off of me, turning my head to the right to find the source of the beeping. It was my alarm clock. The red numbers 7:01 flashed on and off. I groaned. At least I got up this time.