Marielle was scared of him, but Harry was only scared of losing her.
*DISCLAIMER: This story contains a lot of domestic abuse, violence and swearing. Please consider checking out these things if you're interested in helping with domestic violence or...
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*Harry's outfit ^*
- "Are you cheating on me?" He slammed his keys onto the kitchen counter, I flinched and gulped down the fear I'd been holding down ever since the clock struck 5:13.
"Answer me!" His screams echoed in my ears. I didn't cheat on him. I shook my head, trying to prevent bruises, stinging sensations, painkillers.
"Who the fuck is Joshua, Marielle?" My sisters boyfriend. But he wouldn't believe me. He'd slap me and then we'd sit in silence, eating dinner and sleeping on opposite sides of the bed until he whispered an apology in my ear and wrapped his arms around my waist.
"H-he's Amara's boyfriend." He snickered, stepping back and kicking the wall beside the fridge.
"You're sleeping with your sisters boyfriend? What a sick little slut."
I would never. But I knew if he could, he'd have slept with Amara more times than he'd ever say he loved me.
-
I woke up alone. The radio was on, the volume low enough to where I could only hear that the news castor was a man. His rosemary scent lingered in the air and I held back a gag. I smelled that scent every time he'd approach me, either to kiss me or to push me up against the wall and threaten my life.
I pulled myself out of bed, heading for the bathroom. I managed to catch that there would be sun showers today. That was nice.
I undressed myself, tied my hair up into a bun and slipped into the bathtub, the sound of the running lukewarm water echoing through the apartment. I took advantage of the time alone and thought about the couple next door. And how they'd moved out. The lady had once offered to let me sleep on the couch in her apartment when things became too much. But I didn't want him pounding on their door late at night because I wasn't with him.
Instead of the normal noise of people smoking in the apartment parking lot and cars passing through the small town, I heard a moving truck. Unusual considering the apartments never seemed to be sold to anyone. I drained the tub, threw a towel around myself and peered out the tiny bathroom window. Two men pulled a love seat out of the back of a medium sized U-haul.
What if this new person was moving in next door? My heart began to pound at the thought that someone was actually moving in next to us. I couldn't see the man or woman moving in from the window. I glimpsed at myself in the mirror, the mark wasn't a mark anymore. My cheek was slightly bruised, and my left arm was scraped from falling into the vanity. I opened the medicine cabinet, my reflection disappeared and was replaced with the medication I swallowed dry whenever Trent was angry. I swallowed one pill and washed it down with the water from the old bathroom sink.
After pulling on a pair of light blue jeans, a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt that Trent hated, and a pair of white vans. I headed for the door. But I stopped. I hadn't been outside in ages, not even to get mail. Trent didn't like me going outside. Even though I was twenty-one, he gave me a curfew. I was only allowed to go out it someone was catching on to our 'complicated relationship'. If I wasn't home by ten, another couple painkillers would do.
I extended my shaking hand to the doorknob. I remember clutching onto the doorknob for stability only to fall back into it from Trent's slap. I shook it front my mind, letting go of the doorknob and rubbing my temples.
I tried again, my hands were shaking at the thought of someone new. Or maybe it was the memories that clung to the very doorknob I was holding. I opened it and stepped out. The carpet in the hallway was the same deep green with fern patterns scattered across it.
I closed the door behind me. I felt..normal for once. Trent wasn't begging me to go back in. He wasn't impaling me with his harsh words and then manipulating me with his promises of love. Because he wasn't here.
The men working next door didn't acknowledge their loud speaking voices, both of them carrying a Southern accent in their voices, as expected from North Carolina.
Something peered out of the apartment. At first, I brushed it off as a piece of furniture. But upon closer inspection, I realized it was a heel. My eyes snapped away from the figure as they took a few steps back.
It was a man. Who couldn't be older than twenty-five with disheveled light-chestnut hair. His pink lips were turned up into the widest smile that I'd ever seen. As he spoke to the Southern men helping with the furniture, I noticed a slight rasp in his voice and the British accent that made me fall deeper into this trance he wasn't meaning to put me in.
And he looked over at me. Poor me. Marielle Kennedy, a twenty-one year old girl who had no direction in her life.
"Oh, hello!" His voice startled me. I couldn't respond, the words caught at the back of my throat. Something told me to run back into the apartment like a coward, but something else was telling me to stay.
The stranger stepped closer to me. His vibrant green eyes meeting mine. He wore a yellow shirt, black pants and a pair of black and white vans. His sunglasses entangled in his unruly curls.
And I stood like a fool, just staring at him. He looked down at his feet, and turned around to walk back into his apartment.
"Wait!" I mentally slapped myself. If Trent found out I'd been talking to another guy, be'd make sure I'd never forget it. He turned around, a curl falling onto his face.
"Hi."
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American hotline for domestic abuse:1-800-799-SAFE (7233).
Website link for more information and numbers: http://www.thehotline.org
