“What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”
SUDDENLY MY EYES ARE OPEN
Christopher Tyler & Élodie Carrière-Ash
He knew she was there before the door even opened, the key turning in the lock and the jam slotting aside to grant her access to the apartment. He had once told her it was her home whenever she needed it but right then there was no warm familiarity associated with her entrance, with her presence, there was no comfort to be found, only fear and uncertainty. Even the simple act of turning from the window was a struggle, so many warring compulsions and desires and he gripped the windowsill hard enough for the wood to splinter, small fragments digging into his skin. He felt them bite and welcomed it, tried to use the fleeting pricks of pain to distract himself from what he feared the most.
The moon was not full in the sky but the pull was undeniable, so fierce and powerful. Out of his window and above the city the moon hung, a sliver away from being a perfect disc, silent and shining. In that moment he hated it, wanted to shatter the window with a fist as though that would somehow knock the moon right out of the sky and take that awful power it had over him with it. His eyes burned and he caught their heated glimmer in his reflection. Closing them tightly he sucked in a sharp breath and held it.
“Chris?” Her voice was quiet, concerned. She had paused in the middle of the living room. “You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried.”
Yes, she was worried. He could practically smell it, a sharp, potent scent mingled with everything he had come to associate with her, the soap and shampoo she favoured, her subtle and delicate perfume, the softener she used when she did her laundry. His grip on the sill tightened. It cracked and he forced himself to let go, opening his eyes and catching her startled flinch in the reflective pane of glass before him. The breath unlocked in his throat and tumbled out of him, shuddering and unsteady.
“What’s wrong?” There was a tremor to her voice that he didn’t like. Fear? If so, what kind of fear? Was she afraid of him? Suddenly there was a lump in his throat like a rock and he couldn’t shift it, could barely push air past it and he had to put his hand against the wall, bowing his head over and down as he fought against impulses he couldn’t recognise, feelings that were so unfamiliar and so unwelcome. Dangerous and primal.
“Chris, what is it?” She moved closer. He heard the whisper of her shoes over the carpet as she approached and he wanted to tell her to stop, warn her to stay back, it wasn’t safe, but nothing would come out. He couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to close in around him and his knees threatened to buckle, his legs felt weak and treacherous and a gasp broke free past that blockage in his throat. It only spurred her on, brought her even closer and he had to turn then, back to the wall, pressing away from her and against it as flat as he could bring himself to be so there was distance between them, her hand halted outstretched towards him, her eyes wide and questioning, uncertain and searching.
“Don’t,” he breathed in a rush, shaking his head and closing his eyes. They would change, he knew they would, and he didn’t want to scare her like that. “Please don’t do that.” His knees shook and then failed him and he managed to slide down the wall instead of dropping like a stone, his chest feeling tight and painful, lungs burning, throat still closed up, making his voice sound thick and choked.
The air shifted as she lowered, staying close and even with his warning she reached out to touch, one hand finding his shoulder. Unconsciously he tensed beneath that touch and she hesitated but did not pull away. Instead she stayed exactly where she was, fighting off any fear she felt in order to stay with him. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words spilled out of him like the rush of water from a bursting dam and he panted fiercely then, his throat unlocking and his lungs desperate and hungry for air that tripped on the way down and seemed to sear as it went. Drawing his legs up to his chest he buried his face against his knees, folding himself up as small as he could get, trying to shrink away from the world. From Elle. If he hurt her he would never be able to forgive himself. He wouldn’t want to forgive himself.
“You won’t,” she told him in a whisper that was filled with so much certainty, her voice close to his ear. A hand touched to the back of his neck, cupping and supporting, and the familiarity pushed through the terror and began to battle against the conflict within. “You won’t hurt me,” she told him again. “I know you won’t.” She sounded so convinced of her words, like there was no way she could doubt them, doubt him. “You would never hurt me.”