English Love Affair » z.m au

6. "Are you okay?"

A/N: First off, listen to the song attached to the side while reading this, it'll help set the mood right :) I'll also attach a picture with their outfits in case you want to check it out.

I am done writing this whole story, so I hope you stick around long enough to see how it will turn out, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.

Don't forget to comment/vote please, and tell me what you think because it always makes my day, even if it's a simple "no" or "omg" or whatever.

ily x

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Her

 

I sensed his weight lifting off the bed, so I closed my eyes, avoiding any possibility of occurring interaction between us both.

The sunlight pierced through the curtains, the sound of the water running, filled the air, and sleep was finally attainable.

I woke up to an empty bed.

Or rather, an empty house.

The only indication that he wasn’t another thread of my imagination, was his dirty clothes laying in a pile by his side of the cupboard.

With a sigh, I rose from my bed, taking a long shower, before dressing to finish my requested chores. I put on my black shorts, and my transparent, pink, button up that almost went past my shorts. I left my hair loose, barely silencing his voice in my head, firmly ordering me not to.

He hated when I left my hair loose.

He always said, it made me look messy and ungraceful.

I didn’t give a shit.

I went to get his laundry, deciding to walk there, encouraged by the warm summer weather.

The suit that Patrick had prepared for the night was so incredibly dull for my taste.

It was too formal, too closed off, tasteless, and repetitive.

As was he.

When I turned 18, my dear mother decided that I needed to marry someone who would have enough money for the both of us. So instead of her, stepping up, and being a proper parent, she decided to lay it all onto my shoulders. At first, Patrick seemed charming, sweet, and most importantly, rich. Something deep within me, urged me to stay away, but I didn’t listen.

I never did anyways.

So I married him. For four years now, I had been his own personal slave. He controlled every minor detail of my pathetic existence. He told me when to be happy, when to cry, when to feel, when to shut off, when to love, when to hate. He could take off my clothes, push me onto the bed, and fuck me senseless, and I wouldn’t have a say in it. My body would simply shut down, rejecting him, which would only cause him to try harder, hurt more, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I despised him.

I despised her for doing this to me.

I despised myself, because my own skin smelled of him, and traces of his skin was under my nails, after our encounters.

I despised myself because he had marked me; with the three stitches in my head, the burn scars on my thighs, and my previously broken nose.

I despised myself because I heard his voice, constantly burning me to ashes, with every breath I dared to take.