The Contract

XVI - Exponere

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My bed was cold.

No. It wasn't just cold—it was freezing. Winter had entered my room in the middle of a heated night, casting a cold sheer of ice along every surface. Well, that was what it felt like, anyways.

Was I freezing to death? Was that why my thoughts and imagination were so odd and jumbled? I had been lying here for what seemed like hours, yet not once had my eyes stayed closed for more than fifteen seconds. I couldn't sleep; this new case of insomnia was terribly unwelcome.

It wasn't until I heard myself sniffling that I knew I was crying. I wasn't just crying; I was sobbing. I turned my head, pressing my face into the pillow so my sobs would be muffled.

Why did Lure have to be so. . . psychotic? Why did he have to be a sadistic killer? Why were his inner feelings and urges that of a demon? He was supposed to be normal—humanlike, not horrid and demonized. He had been the first person, if I could even call him that, who had ever shown interest in me; he had tried to help me, if only for his own selfish reasons. He had saved me from Matt, sure, but. . . he had unnecessarily killed my grandpa, and now he was unnecessarily off killing Tommy.

As soon as I thought this, I heard the door open. A cold draft swept over me; even colder than before. Everything, alarmingly frosty; so frosty that I needed to shiver and tremble. I wasn't, however, shivering for the sole reason of the cold—but also because I was crying so hard.

The door closed, but a presence was left with me. Someone was in my room.

I felt weak. Lure had called me weak.

How could Lure have had such an impact on me? How could he treat me so harshly and not understand his wrongs? How could I ignore all he did bad and see him in such a glorious light?

The footsteps on the carpet hardly alarmed me. I couldn't tell if the steps were calculated or hesitant; I assumed they belonged to my mother. She had most likely heard my sobs from down the hall. . . but then again, she hardly heard anything from in her room. How had she heard a sob, but not a shout at Lure to stop touching me?

The point. To the point, self. Could I live without Lure? Could I break it off with him? Would he even let me? The odds were against me; they were always against me when I was dealing with Lure. He was manipulative and mean, but he didn't even realize it half the time. How could he have so much power over me without knowing it? Sure, physically, he could do anything to me, but mentally. . .? I was my own, mentally. He knew that; he just didn't know that he had me in his grasp mentally, just like physically.

I was like his marionette. A marionette he cared for but wasn't afraid to play with. He knew I wouldn't break and he used that to his advantage.

I hadn't broken yet. Why had he called me weak, then?

I shivered absently and choked on a sob. He hurt me so much, but still, he was the one I came to whenever I was emotionally down. He was the one who comforted me; who made me feel safe and warm and needed.

I stiffened when I felt a hand run through my hair. I didn't dare turn around to face the figure, who was definitely not my mom. The touch was entirely different; not soft and caressing like my mother's, but slightly demanding yet not dangerously so.

I was suddenly turned onto my back. The figure—who I had identified as Lure—sat atop me, straddling my waist and peering down at me. My eyes had long ago adjusted to the darkness so I could see his expression, although faintly. Actually, he was wearing no expression, which frightened me slightly. He leaned down, soft wisps of hair falling forth to tickle my face, as his lips lingered above mine, no more than half an inch away from contacting with mine. His stormy eyes seemed to glimmer oddly in the dark, much like a cat's would at a far distance from the reflection of a light.