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“I guess we’re both prisoners now,” I tell her.
Undeterred by my gloomy attitude, she continues toward me like a beam of sunshine. “I’ve got all kinds of things for you.”
“Do you have the key to that door?”
She doesn't falter from whatever her mission is. “Xavier instructed me to give you these.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Being stuck in a room can get lonely. You'll need something to keep you occupied.”
Hm. I don't want to take the bag extended out, but she did answer my question which no one else seems to do. Maybe this could work to my advantage.
Smiling, I take the crisp brown bag from her hands. “Thanks.”
After informing me she’ll be checking in on me every day, she leaves.
I study the bag in my hands, equal parts repulsed and curious. This all feels very surreal. With nothing else to do, I sit cross legged on the bed and pull out what I least expect… a notebook, sheets of self-folding heavy card stock and drawing pens. The good ones. It's a lot messed up that I feel any sense of gratitude over his gift. He remembers. My mind can't rationalize the juxtaposition of sentiment with the fact it was given to me because I'm his prisoner. No, I shouldn't feel grateful at all. Fear is the emotion I should feel.
Before I completely melt down, I move to the desk in the corner and draw.
Once I start, I can’t stop.
When the sun fades in the sky, and no longer pours through the curtains, my stomach grumbles just as the door opens. He’s here, looking like he stepped out of a hottest executive’s ad, dressed in tailored navy slacks and a white dress shirt that clings to the muscles hidden underneath.
“What do you want?” I ask, irritated that I'm noticing things about his appearance.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets his large presence fill the room until it’s impossible to breathe anything except his scent. He smells like a lifetime of regret waiting to happen.
“It would be easier if you didn’t resist me,” he finally says in a low voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He moves closer and sits on the bed. “I just mean things would be smoother if you didn’t try to fight me at every turn.”
Frustrated he's acting as if we didn't spend a good chunk of our lives as friends, I continue trying to break through his armor. “What happened to you?” I have so many questions. “Why did you leave?”
He breathes in deep and lets out a smooth, controlled breath, running a hand through his dark hair.
He’s not going to answer me, and my heart deflates a bit.
“Well, since there wasn't a lot else to do,” I pick up the card I’ve been working on and hold it out, “I made this for you.”
His fingers brush mine when he takes it from me. I watch as he studies the smiling princess on the front, wondering if he remembers our childhood game.
“Thanks for not killing me today,” he reads on the inside. He looks back at me. “You forgot yet.”
He looks very serious about that, but I’d like to believe he hasn't completely crossed to the dark side.
He pockets the card. “You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer at the same time my stomach growls.
“Come with me.” He holds his hand out and I take it.
His hand is different, strong and harsh, not like when we were kids. It’s possessive now, like he owns my tiny hand in his.
On the walk through his spacious home, my eyes memorize everything, and I hurry my steps to keep up. We pass through immaculate, sophisticated rooms with vaulted ceilings and shiny hardwood floors. Black leather couches with deep red pillows and not a lot of anything else is the theme. It isn’t warm and friendly, instead, it’s polished and unlived in. He turns a sharp corner and leads me down a long corridor filled with Art Deco paintings that brighten the white walls. And so many doors.
