Chasing Pavements

seven

7
-
𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊

"Can you tell me how you got here?" The man dressed in a white coat asked.

His voice was calm and cautious. He was testing the waters. Probably out of fear of me lashing out, or rather, of me closing down completely as a result of the traumatic events that occurred.

He extended his hand, never getting too close but enough to let me know he was there. "Listen, Miss, I am going to need you to tell me what happened to you."

"Aren't you supposed to be treating me, not interrogating me?" I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear.

The response was gentle with an undertone of snark. He didn't need to know that my words were true. I believe. Perhaps. He didn't have to. All he had to do was tend to my injuries, remain silent, and then leave... Take, for example, the man with reddish-brown eyes. So peculiar, yet so... so beautifully done. Odd, but celestially odd, would be the best way to describe him. And he held so much recognition that I was certain he knew who I was, but that was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. A man like that would never even know someone like me, let alone speak to me. So believe me when I say I'd known a man like that. A man as stunning as him would have been difficult to overlook.

His name was Stavros, and he was addressed as Herr (which, from what I understand, means boss). He exuded a commanding presence. An unspoken declaration that he was in charge of everything. Perhaps another mafia. My instincts tell me so. I'm not sure whether I should be relieved or disappointed that they were the ones who found me. I didn't know them; for all I know, they could have sold me to human trafficking or ended up turning me into a sex slave; but so far, none of that has happened to me, so I can breathe, at least until they do something bad.

It's probably a bad thing that I can be trusting-trusting a stranger more than I trust my own flesh and blood. I, too, feel much safer. I didn't know why, and I didn't complain; all that mattered was that I was okay. I wasn't hurt (well, that's an understatement) and I was comfortable in a warm, cozy room.

"Alright. I'm finished patching you up; if you need anything, please call "He rises to his feet, digging his hands into the front pockets of his white coat, and points to the red landline on top of the nightstand. "Before I leave, you have anything else you want to say?" he prodded with a raised brow.

He wanted me to tell him what had happened, what had caused me to float in the middle of the ocean until they found me. I gave him a smile that said, "nice try," because no matter how hard he pressed, I would never tell him.

He bids me adieu with a defeated sigh and leaves me to my thoughts.

-
𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚛𝚘𝚜

A yellowish-red pimple had formed beneath my jaw. It was visible, but not overly so. Soon after the doctor dismissed me, I locked myself in my room. I fought the strong desire to defy him and crawl under the covers next to her.

As I retrieved my pimple cream from my skincare drawer, I clicked my tongue and sighed. I took excellent care of my skin; I didn't get a lot of acne, but it did appear in tiny dots during stressful events. They appeared between my brows, on my cheeks, and under my jaw, just like this one. This has always been the problem. I get tense when I'm around her. It was all because I didn't know how to act.

It's not the first time she's caused me so much stress that a pimple has emerged.

It was the beginning of my senior year of secondary education. I had returned from a two-week vacation in Germany. I removed my helmet and shook my hair. My cheeks heated up and my breathing became labored during the intense game of football. Strom ran across the field, drenching my gear in tropical red gatorade. With a huge grin on his lips, the guy I considered a friend got away with hugging me. I didn't like it when people touched me, but he never listened, so I grew accustomed to his invasion of my privacy.