Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“What is this?” I ask her without looking at her. I know she’s looking at me; I can feel her careful gaze. She doesn’t like to look at me when I’m looking at her. Although it’s a habit I need to break, I’m more concerned with getting answers than obedience.
“The three of swords,” she answers in a small voice and it beckons me to look back at her. For a moment we share a gaze, but then she drops it, focusing on the paper in my hands.
“One of your tarot cards?” I ask her and then straighten the paper in my hand, noticing how it resembles a card.
“Yes. Jase said he bought me a deck online but until they arrive I thought I would draw them myself.”
I consider her for a moment. Of everything she could ask for, of everything she could be doing at this moment, this is what she chose. “Why?”
“I like to think about things and it helps me.” She nervously picks at the edge of her dirty shirt where a thread has come undone. “It’s been lonely, and I haven’t been able to think of anything new. It was just something…” her voice trails off and she takes in a shuddering breath. Weeks of doing absolutely nothing but living with your demons would haunt and break the strongest of minds. But she’s survived.
“Do your clothes not fit?”
“They do, I just get dirty doing this. So, I thought…” she pauses to take in a short breath and then another. “I just wanted to take care of this, and then I’d planned to change and try to clean myself up.”
Nodding, I hand the paper back to her asking, “What does it mean?”
She’s hesitant to reach out and take it, but when she does, her fingers trace the edges of the knives. “The three of swords represents rejection, loneliness, heartbreak…” Her words aren’t saddened by the information, merely matter-of-fact.
I wonder if she’s lying. If the one card that she’s drawn I happened to pick up, would really mean those things or if she’s toying with me. She could be trying to weaken my resolve by gaining sympathy. It will never happen.
“But yours was reversed,” she says, and it cuts through my thoughts of her intention.
“And what does that mean?” I ask her, expecting her to spit back that I’m the one causing it all. For her to blame all of this on me. And in so many ways it is my fault, but she’s to blame as well and she doesn’t even know it.
“Forgiveness,” she whispers the word and then slowly inches closer to pick up each of the fallen papers, dozens of them, gathering them together and avoiding me at all costs.
The word resonates for a moment, lingering in the space between us and striking something deep inside of me.
My blood pressure rises as my eyes search her face for an indication as to what she’s getting at. But she doesn’t look at me and her body seems to cower more with each passing second.
The moment passes, and she neatly arranges the stack in front of her and still doesn’t look up at me.
Stubborn girl. The familiar tic in my jaw begins to contract as I wait another moment. And then another before she looks up at me through her thick lashes. Instead of seeing disinterest, resentment, or whatever I was expecting, all I see is the unspoken plea for me to let her have this small bit of happiness.
But nothing in this life is free. And she should know better than that.
“When I come in here, I want you to kneel for me.”
She flinches as she realizes what I’ve said and as her head lowers, the dip in her collarbone seems to deepen to a level that sickens me.
She’s resistant to obeying, but she needs to understand. There is an expectation both of us need to meet. And what’s been done can’t be taken back. That’s not an option. “I admire your strength. I do.” I talk with her eyes on my back as I stalk to the metal chair at the far wall. I debate on leaving it there and giving her space. But that intention is quickly forgotten.
Picking up the chair, I take it back to where she’s still seated, shaking her head as her shoulders hunch in.
“You keep saying I’m strong and I have to admit I don’t get your humor.” I’m taken aback by the severity of her tone and the venom that veils each syllable as she speaks. She offers me a smile that wavers and then adds, “Did you let him give it all to me so you could simply take it away?” Maybe the small taste of what used to be and what she could so easily have is what she needed to remember her defiance and ignite the spark between us again.