His Eyes

The sound of bread tearing was like heaven to my ears, my mouth moist with saliva as I stuffed the piece inside. Finally, food. It’s been days since my stomach growled with my screams, and I’ve been in this air tight room for a week and counting. I haven’t seen him through the key hole door since the day he bled himself. The wood where the crimson was a puddle beneath him is dark with the stain.

There had been a knock on the door when he left. I don’t know where the bread came from.

I just want out of here.

I heard footsteps from outside. And as I turned my head towards the small light peeping through the key hole, the candle burnt itself out and the darkness was quick to envelope me. My hand felt beside me, the rough dusty floor, then the softness of white wax and a box of matches. They rattled in the box as I took it along with the candle, in my hand. Feeling around the darkness again my free hand, my right hand, caught the burned out candle and the rusted candle holder. I stuck the new candle inside, the melted wax spilling over the side, the cooling down and hardening over my fingers.

Pulling a match from the box and my fingers grazing the textured part, a bigger door where the key hole door was connected to opened, and I saw his face as I turned.

“There will be no need for wasting a candle. Where did you get the bread?” He was kneeling beside me, taking the candle and matchbox away from, pushing away the plate of bread after he set those two items down.

“I don’t know where it came from.” I spoke quietly as I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling his arms embrace me, picking me up bridal style. I loved being in his arms. The heat. I felt so comfortable.

The room where he was hurting was almost as dim as the air tight room had been, since the curtains were drawn, as he walked through it to the bathroom. There was a pile of clothes, another pair of dark jeans, a black lacy tank top, socks, my buckle boots beside the stool they stood on. Oh and my jacket. I loved my jacket.

“Get cleaned up. We need to be somewhere.” His voice was in my ear, giving me the chills, my nipples hardening through the thin fabric of white, vintage night gown he had given me. He pecked my cheek and left the room quiet, the sound of the door closing a soft whisper.

After I had pulled off the night gown, letting it puddle beneath me, I stepped into the small shower, feeling the plastic blue tiles, the rusting shower faucet. I pulled down the little lever, letting the water go from cold to hot to cold and then hot again, down on me.

Shampoo. Conditioner. Smells like kiwi and lime. Lavender soap. Shave, trim. 30 minutes.

Pulling on some underwear and a black bra from the cabinet near the shower, I dressed myself in the other clothes he provided me. Grabbing the lighter and stick of eyeliner, my mascara, I prettied myself up for him. I always did. And it was always for him. 15 minutes.

45 minutes in total and I was beginning to wonder if his patience had died.

No. There he was, sitting in the middle of the room, watching the stain he had created when he was hurting. But he looked up at the sound of my boots making the dusty floor boards creek. I gave him a weak but reassuring smile as he pulled me into his arms, and I heard him inhale.

“You always smell so good.” He whimpered into my neck, then pulled away from my embrace, holding my hand, and pulled me to the outside world.

**

There was a shiny, black car waiting outside for us, parking in the center of a sage brush circle. All I could was the hills covered in patches of green grass, sage brush, maybe a cottonwood tree or two, as I ducked my head down to get inside the car. He sat beside me, his hand clutching mine again. He hates to let go. Always has.

Rocks were flying, so was the dirt, against the black car, sticking to it, making it go brown. I could only imagine that, I was on the inside sinking into the leather seat as the air conditioner blew. He was beside me still, his hand still holding on to mine, cold. Everything about him was cold nowadays, and though it should worry me, it doesn’t.

The sounds of the rocks hitting against the car was like a gun shot, loud and reverberated in my head. I could hear nothing but the sound of the wheels running against the dirt road, and my head began to pulse. I didn’t like loud sounds like this, it made my heart clench tightly and my stomach be an acrobat. Flipping and spinning along to the pulsing beat in my head, as if my heart and pumped its way, somehow with my brain. They were dancing and stomping like lovers do.

I’ve seen him with many lovers, girls that were drugged by their drinks, unconscious by the time he had them through the door way of whatever hotel he could afford. They were only distractions to him. Some of them even lasted more then two weeks, sometimes a month. I always watched him making those girls hold his hand, how he treated them nicely until they found a way out. They left him. I had to pick up the pieces. I had to watch. I had to pay.

But he never acted like he did with those girls to me, no. He’s very strange with me. Very calm, always clingy, his hand in mine. Either that or I’m trying to coax him out of his silly trances and the bleeding he does. He only kisses me on the cheek, never on the lips like he does those many lovers. He barely lets me walk. Sometimes he ignores me as if we had been fighting, but that never last long. We never fight.

He’s hit me once. I remember that time as if it still continues to this day. I was still twelve, and it had been months since I had seen my parents and the carnivals were over, far over. I tried to run because I didn’t want to be with him at the time, he was really scaring me and there were too many rules and consequences. I broke the biggest rule. No running. So I couldn’t open my eyes for a week. No need for make up. I can see the marks from his dirty, bloody nails on my arms still. They have never disappeared.

Besides those scars, there are the ones on my left hand. Two, narrow and small scars. Burns actually, from an eraser on a number 2 pencil. I saw him do things to himself to escape, it was never bad back then like it is now. I followed in his footsteps so to speak, and now I’m regretting it. However, there are days where I know I’m not feeling well. A hot shower and my razor for shaving clears that feeling up right away.

Blinking away those thoughts I turned my head to the window, carefully squinting my eyes to keep the burning light at bay. I could see the small, flat mountain come up ahead. We were coming close to the town, and from there the direction we were going will be unknown to me. I don’t know where this man taking us in this shiny but now dirty black car is going, where his main focus is right now. But I know he, with his suddenly thoughtful but still poisonous green eyes, knows exactly where we’re headed.

**

“Come on out, Darling.” He purred, he always does this. His hand still in mine I followed him through the wet alley way, little droplets of rain falling down on us.

There was a big heavy door on a red brick wall that the driver had entered in, and now he was dragging me through it. Darkness. Then I could see only a foggy room with red vintage wallpaper, lamps with red lampshades, beaten furniture with the fabric ripped and the foam peeping from within. People were there, smoking through pipes and cigarettes.

One of them, with a big bushy beard and large mustache, offered him a smoke. But with his piercing green eyes narrowing, looking into the soul of the one who offered him a smoke, shook his head and his hand in disapproval. He hates things like this.

“Who is the little lady you bring with you?” Another one of them said with a thick accent, holding his hand up with a smoke in it, pointing to me.

“She’s…special.” His gaze was soft and blurry as he looked down at me, and I heard them all ‘ooo’ and ‘aaaah’ in understanding, one even in lust. I know lust when I hear it, since he has had many lovers and they all ‘ooo’ and ‘aaaah’ in lust and satisfaction. I wish he’d do that for me. I widened my eyes, surprised, with that thought.

“Oh long will she last?” Another asked.

“Forever.” His voice seemed to whisper, as if I was truly something to him. The mushy feeling began again, and this time I didn’t feel like I shouldn’t feel so, I felt like I should feel so. After all, I’m not a naive fourteen year old anymore. I’m fifteen. And I understand everything. Everything.