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8
Blue Eyes Blind
Juliana
Ifeelapresence, but there’s no way to tell who it is.
All I know is I’m being cared for. I’m gently given sips of water, and at one point, my body is repositioned because I’m still too weak to do it on my own.
None of this makes sense.
I’ve spent days being degraded, violated, and tortured. Any rest I have is fitful and unsettling. My body needs rest to heal, but it remains hypervigilant. Not that I can do anything to protect myself should I face a threat.
When I do manage sleep, I hear a voice somewhere in the distance. The muffled murmurs are comforting even if I don’t understand the words. Sometimes the fuzzy words are directed at me. Sometimes it speaks about nothing at all. Regardless, there’s tenderness there.
Touch is the second sensation to come back to me. Unfortunately, it comes with a nasty partner in crime—pain. My jaw hurts and muscles scream. My ribs ache every time I move, the bruises settling deep in my marrow. It stings and itches near every incision on my skin. Everything is pain.
Occasionally, I feel a soft touch on my forehead or cheek. Something skims my arm and lingers at my wrist. The touch is so tender, so careful and sweet. In contrast with the physical damage my body endured, it feels like ecstasy. There’s no better escape than the caresses I feel, and I crave them more with each hour that passes.
The contact and care slowly bring me back to consciousness. The voice speaks for a while, and the words become clearer. It’s seductive. It’s safe. The more I listen, the more I need to know who it belongs to.
I gather what energy I have and peel back the curtain of my eyelids to take in my surroundings. My first impression has me on edge. It looks too similar to the room I was held captive in. The exposed metal beams and stained concrete floors are the same. Even the wood furniture looks similar. Like it was all bought in bulk at once to fill a dorm building.
I start to doubt the pleasant memories from my slumber. Surely, I’m still chained to that support beam, covered in filth, silently begging for an ending I know will come.
Upon further observation, I discover this is a different space altogether. Some windows let in natural light, and I’m positioned in a bed, not on the floor. The tightness around my ribs and soft fabric that cocoons me tell me someone has cleaned, bandaged, and dressed me too.
Goddess, something smells good. I turn my head to gather more of the scent. The sheets smell like cloves. And lemon?
I can’t help but continue to turn my body into the comfort of the scent. It’s like Christmas and spring cleaning together. Both winter and summer. I sink into the duality.
My eyes close briefly, and I hear a shuffling noise across the room. I’m on high alert as my head jerks toward the sound.
I must look awful since the man immediately stops. His demeanor is warm but calculated. It’s like he’s trying to anticipate and measure my reactions. The patience of this man would have driven me mad under normal circumstances. But I no longer live in normal circumstances.
I take his quiet stillness as a gift. He gives me a moment to decide what I want without pressure or influence.
I nod, giving him permission to approach. He does so slowly so I can track his movements. He’s acting as though I’m a skittish animal, which I guess I am.
“Hi.” His voice is so familiar. “You’re awake. Good.”
I stay silent. There is no way to tell his motivations, and I don’t want to risk placing myself in a situation where I’m set up to face another man’s outrage.
Settling on his knees before me as I lie in what I’m assuming is his bed, the look in his eyes speaks to pure relief and adoration. It’s bizarre to see such unadulterated emotion come from a stranger, much less such a masculine-looking man. Before I can examine the moment of vulnerability further, his face blanks to a neutral expression.
It feels right to see him on his knees. To see him tilting up his face to me, looking for permission. I am powerless here and entirely at his mercy, as cliché as it sounds. Yet he defers to me.
“I’ve been worrying about you. It’s been a week since I brought you up here.” His hand reaches out as if he wants to touch me, but retreats as he thinks better of the action. “Sorry. I shouldn’t do that.”
I study the man. A break in his nose grounds features that might otherwise be almost too pretty. His lips are pressed together, and I long to see his full smile. His inky hair looks soft to the touch, and my fingers ache to run through it. To grab it by the roots and pull. Warm features make his face open up as he looks at me with mesmerizing ocher eyes; a girl could get lost in those eyes.
My gaze slides down his face, and I study his body like an artist. Tanned skin contrasts the dark tattoos running down his neck and into his long-sleeved shirt where they peek out from under the cuffs on his strong hands. The image of stripping off his clothes to touch every stroke the artist left on his skin floats through my mind, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Oh, are you cold?” He stands to move away and grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed. “Here.”
He tucks me into the blanket, literally tucks, and lowers himself to his knees. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his hands wait on his knees, and my breath is stolen once more when he glances down for a moment, refusing to meet my eyes.
I like seeing him there.
