The Run

116

When he enters the hotel room, it's past midnight, and she's dancing in her pajamas – if one can call underwear and a tank top "pajamas". He knows the song, although it is not his. It's called "Bye Bye Bye" and it's one of those boy bands from the early 2000's, and for just a second, he smiles devilishly, thinking of the irony of that title when that's what she's going to say soon. But then his anger comes back full force at the sight of her smile when she turns to him, finally noticing his presence. He is furious, and when her hips finally stop swaying and she gets off the bed to turn off the music, a warm smile on her face, he seriously thinks of choking her.

"Finally!" she says with a laugh, tripping on her own clothes on the ground. "Didn't see you coming back so I started my own dance party... What's wrong?" Her smile fades as she sees the man close the door behind him. His features are hard, and there is no hint of a smile, no light in his eyes like there was just an hour ago. Something must have happened, she knows it, yet she can't quite put her finger on it just yet.

He closes the distance between them in two big steps, and she does her best not to flinch when he grabs her shoulder strongly. "What's your name?"

"Oh," she lets out, half-frightened, half-relieved. It is just that. It should be fine, she thinks. "Listen... It's just... I just..." She wants to explain herself; she wants to come up with something good enough that he'll stop caring about her name whatsoever, but her brain is all mushy and she cannot think, not with his fingers pressing so hard on her skin that she's sure it will leave marks.

"What. Is. Your. Name?" he asks again, stronger this time, stopping with each syllable as if playing a rhythm on his drums – only he's not hitting cymbals or snares or toms, he's on the brink of hitting her.

"You're hurting me," she spits, trying to keep her composure, doing her best not to show him that she's starting to get scared. "Let me go and I'll explain."

His left hand grabs her other shoulder now, and the fury is visible in his eyes, like they're on fire. "You don't get to make your own rules anymore!" She lets out a scream of pain as he shakes her violently. He must see that he's really hurting her now, because for a split second, his eyes change again, becoming softer, but he blinks and the anger is back, stronger than ever. Still he lets her go, pushing her away. She falls on her back, luckily landing on the bed she was, minutes ago, dancing on. "You don't fucking get to make your own rules. I-" he paces around the room now, one of his hands playing in his hair, almost tearing it out. "I make the rules!"

Her heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. She scrambles to her feet on the other side of the bed, as if having a piece of furniture will prevent him from... what exactly? Beating her up? Would he really do that? She steps back, hitting the corner of the room as he continues to pace around, muttering words to himself that she can't comprehend. She's never seen him like that. He's like another person, a stranger, and she doesn't know what that stranger is capable of doing.

"Your name?" he stops after a moment, turning to her, his hands shaking at his sides.

"Josh, can we just-"

"YOUR FUCKIN-" he screams, stopping himself in the middle of a sentence. "Don't make me-" His hands finds his hair again and he pulls hard, hurting himself instead of hurting her. "Tell me your fuckin' name. NOW."

She gulps. He seems to be suffering, and she understands that being lied to isn't fun, yet she can't accept him getting so worked up about it. Fiercely, she convinces herself that he's just in one of those moods, throwing a tantrum. He'll be back to normal soon. He has too. "It's just a name, for God's sake. You lied to me about your name too, didn't you? What does it change?"

His hands let go of his hair, falling back against his sides, and he looks at her then. Really looks at her. But there's someone else behind his eyes, and she knows she's gone too far as he, again, gets rid of the distance between them in a couple angry strides. He grabs her face hard by the cheeks, his fingers pushing so hard on her skin that her mouth is all deformed and she's incapable to speak. "What does it change?" he whispers, and she has never seen his eyes from that close. They're beautiful, a soft light brown, almost hazel, and she wishes she didn't have to see them in this situation. "What does it change?" he asks again, and his teeth are grinding, so tightly, that he can't enunciate the words properly.