Scared Essay

This essay has a total of 1763 words and 7 pages.


She gripped the the hard cherrywood head bord, wating for it to be over. Her back lay
against the feather soft pillows and cool sheets that brushed across her tensed body. The
bed that had always brought her so much comfort at night, was now the last place she
wanted to be, especially with him.
After he had finished, she made
her usual noises to let him know that she was done. She couldn't think of anything to say.
Stretching out on her back, trying to ease the achiness, she lit her cigarette. She
couldn't look at him, not yet, so she just watched the smoke float towards the ceiling,
wishing she could join it. Absently, she rubbed her arm, wincing slightly as her
fingers passed over the faded bruise there. She glanced at it; so did he. It wasn't the
livid purplish red it had been earlier in the week. It had weakened, and now just a faint
blue splotch remained. Most people wouldn't have noticed it. They both did. They both
remembered how it had happened. "I didn't do that, did I?" he asked. She shook her
head again. He knew he had. He wasn't that dumb, or that forgetful, but she knew he liked
to pretend that he was. She envied him that. He could pretend he hadn't done it, but she
couldn't. He was so handsome. She could never help noticing. But she didn't want to
look at him. Rolling onto her side, she pulled the sheet up to her chin, covering the
bruise and wishing he would go away. She didn't want to have to ask him to leave. It was
too hard. She'd done it a million times, and he had never heard her. "You okay?"
he asked, standing in front of her mirror, fixing his hair. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She wasn't looking at him, so why did he have to talk to her? Didn't he understand she was
trying to pretend he wasn't even there? She felt him put his hand on her leg,
giving it a gentle shake. "Hey, are you all right? You asleep? Hey. Don't go to sleep with
that cigarette lit." Shoot, she thought, realizing she was still holding it upright,
knowing it wouldn't work to pretend she'd drifted off. She opened her eyes. "Hi." She
smiled. He looked at her strangely. "Are you mad?" She shook her head.
She wasn't mad, at least not the way he meant. She was just done. Of course, it was
probably the third time that week and at least the hundredth since she'd met him that she
had been done. He grinned, pleased with himself. She could almost imagine his interior
monologue. He'd scored, again, with her. She wasn't mad. To him, everything was fine. He
didn't realize it was over. He didn't realize she'd had it. No, he never could tell, as
long as she wasn't crying or yelling, he always just figured they were happy. He
didn't know, though. He didn't want to know, so he simply didn't. Things were that easy
for him. She felt his weight push the mattress down as he climbed back into the bed. A
cold draft of air touched her bare leg as he crawled under the sheet with her. She didn't
move, she barely even breathed as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her
tight against him. "Are you sure you aren't mad?" She shook her head. "Are you going to
talk to me?" She kept her breathing deep and even. She was asleep, that's what she wanted
him to think. She certainly was tired enough to be, but she wanted to wait until he
left. "Tired?" he asked. Why wouldn't he just be quiet? Wasn't it enough yet? Hadn't
she given enough? Did she always have to pretend she had something to say when all she
wanted was to be alone? "Hmm," he murmured into her hair. "You smell so
nice." Wrapped up in her, like that, he fell asleep. When he started to snore she
knew he was out for the night. "Dang it," she muttered, knowing that now she
would never get to sleep. She'd had enough, but once again it hadn't seemed a good time to
say so. He wasn't going to leave, and she knew she could never sleep, not with him that
close to her, and not with that bruise on her arm. He was still there when the sun came
up. She'd known that he would be, but by then her exhaustion had overcome her, and she had
drifted off. Less than two hours later, she awoke, knowing that he would be watching
her. Propped up on one elbow, his face only inches from hers, he stared at her
intently, as though she had been doing something far more interesting than
sleeping. "What?" she asked. He narrowed his eyes. She held her breath,
wondering if he was getting angry, wondering what she could do or say that would calm him
down. "Did you know that you cry in your sleep?" She sighed with relief. He
wasn't mad, but he was in one of his talkative moods. Sometimes that was worse. "Do I?"

He leaned across her, his arm brushing over her chest as he reached for his cigarettes.
"Not actual tears," he went on, lighting a cigarette. His eyes never left her face. "You
just sort of whimper." He paused. "And you cringe. Every time I moved, you flinched and
curled into a little ball."She had no idea how to respond. Why did he always have to watch
her so closely? She hated that, especially when she was sleeping. Awake, she could try her
best to make sure she seemed happy and calm all the time—asleep, she had no control over
what he saw. "Are you scared of me or something?" he asked. How could he even ask that?
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