Maybe, I’m fascinated by him. Maybe, it’s my inability to understand how a person can do what he’s done to me and sit there, acting as if he has no cares in the world.
That’s all that it is. It’s not attraction, it’s intrigue. It’s that feeling people get when they see or hear something they could have never imagined knowing about until that very moment. It’s surprise and shock and it’s eating away at me.
I have so many questions. I want so many answers.
My third glance is at the pulse pounding on the side of his neck. I take the time to count them. His heart rate isn’t erratic, it’s steady, strong, while mine pounds in my chest as if I’ve run ten miles.
I swallow, looking back at the television when I realize that my own breathing and my own pulse are starting to increase. I spend long minutes watching the television without actually seeing or understanding what’s going on. I guess I can be glad he didn’t stop and purchase one of those pornographic movies he spent so much time perusing.
The next look lands on the mangled patch of flesh on the back of his neck. It looks painful and I know it had to have been. As evil as this man could possibly be, I know he would feel pain.
I want to ask him about it. I want to know how he got that scar. I don’t know how I missed them at the surf shop. I shake my head, rejecting that thought. I know exactly how I missed it. I didn’t pay him any attention. He wasn’t worthy of it. I see them now and a little explanation of why they’re there would go a long way in helping me understand who he actually is.
It would help me understand that he is either evil or he’s a product of something society made. Did he get them there because someone hated him? Did he get them there because he’s always been an evil man? Are those scars what caused him to be evil or are they a result of being evil?
I shouldn’t care to know why he was hurt. It shouldn’t make me wonder who hurt him. Those marks on the back of his neck, the circular scars, that could either be bullet wounds or burn marks.
They make me scared of him even more. But they also make me a little sad. The pain he must have gone through. Did he deserve it at the time? I dig deep, wondering if he would deserve them now. If I could stomach someone coming in here now and marring fresh skin in retaliation for what he’s done to me.
The thought of witnessing that makes my stomach turn. And that’s terrifying on its own.
Shouldn’t I want him to hurt?
Shouldn’t I want him to feel terror?
Shouldn’t I want him to be scared of me?
A fresh round of tears burns the back of my eyes because now I’m making excuses for him behaving this way.
Someone hurt him badly, and that’s why he is the way he is. I just can’t wrap my head around him being this way because he was born this way. Something created him. Someone made him into the person he is today.
The other half of me, the part I honestly do not want to acknowledge, makes me wonder if he can be turned into that if he can also be turned away from that.
Can you de-create a monster?
What would that even take?
Why am I even thinking of that?
It’s not like I want to save him. I don’t want to help him. He’s holding me captive and I can’t ever forgive that. But making him into something that he’s not, trying to convince myself that he’s behaving this way because he can’t help himself, as if him taking me hostage and holding me here against my will, as if making me get myself off in front of him is the only viable outcome. As if it’s always meant to happen that way.
That can’t be possible. He can’t be the type of person who hurts others in retaliation for being hurt himself. How sick does that make someone that they channel that energy and that pain and do horrible things to good people because horrible things had been done to them?
I don’t open my mouth to say these things. He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t come around to my way of thinking. A light bulb would not go off in his head and him think,you’re right. I should only hurt bad people because bad people hurt me.
I press a hand to my chest, saddened even more to think that it might have been done by someone who was supposed to love him. That’s the ultimate betrayal. My life isn’t fun but my life has never consisted of pain, physical pain.
I shake my head, the argument inside making me want to close down completely. I’ve never been one to look for the good in people. Words stopped meaning anything early in life. Promises get broken, people get manipulated, and lies are told. All to further an agenda. All to get a vote. All to get a donation with the hope that those promises will be forgotten when it comes time to pay up.
“When will you let me go?” I ask, my words weak, my voice low.
“Never,” he says without hesitation. He doesn’t even look in my direction when he destroys my world.
I nod because deep down, I think I always knew that would be the outcome. Hoping for things has never been one of my strong suits either. I’m terrified once again at the thought of staying here until he decides differently.
Never doesn’t mean he isn’t going to hurt me and end things. Never could mean a lot of things. Never could mean he’s going to get tired of me and kill me, and I’ll never see the light of day again. Never could mean the rest of my life and it could still be a long life.
My mind wanders back to everything that’s happened, choosing to focus on the fact that he hasn’t really hurt me, other than leaving me here in the room alone last night and having to sleep on that uncomfortable couch. It honestly hasn’t been that bad. I know people have had worse.