He takes my hand and softly asks me, “Why won’t you look at me anymore?”
My eyes froze on his; I let out a shaky breath. One I’ve been meaning to hold. Just in case the tears might flow. He takes a step forward, closer to me. Too close.
“You tell me you love me and yet, you avoid my eyes?” His question accusing, his voice confused and, what was it? Worry? Worried about what?
“Is it because you don’t?” He let go of my hand and looked to the side. His face pinched. “I should’ve known you won’t chase me long.”
His fingers lightly made their way from my cheek, to the bruised and torn lips, down to the hand scarred neck of mine. His callused hand connected to my already bloody cheek, whipping my head to the side. Bloody tears ran down my face and silently dropped onto the floor. Newly made stains of crushed cigarettes bruised the carpet.
“I’m sorry, Maybelle,” he shook his head slowly and stared straight in to my eyes as he grab tightly onto my hair. “You know I love you dearly much so.”
And everything went black.