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The dark hulking figure stood in the doorway. A bright line shown through the door. The door was ajar.
She stood, nestled into his shoulder and wrapped in his arms. Broken. He stared at the figure, staring him down, eyes filled with hatred and warning.
The figure put on a show of having a consciounous, of feeling bad. Of being sorry.
They both knew he was lying.
She had scratches on her legs, and bruises. The figure had pinned her to the floor.
The physical evidence would fade.
The memory would not.
He wished to lunge at the figure. To knock it down, to rip it to shreds, to do the physical damage that had been inflicted on her mind,
He simply stared him down.
She nestled closer to him. The pain, the images, the memory, pressed in on her. Suffocation.
He debated whether to care for her or to hurt the figure.
He put his hand on her back, and pulled her closer.
She lost control of her breath and broken let him hold her up.
The figure continued to stare. The outside world awaited him on the other side of the door. Away from the darkness he would go, make up lies and cry a few tears. Claim innocence. Make the world believe him.
She would not leave the room. She would remain in the darkness the truth had shadowed over her. He would stay with her.
The world would not accept her story. Would not believe her, no matter how many bruises they could actually see. She would remain in the world inside the door, waiting to be able to shut the figure in there. He would remain with her, grabbing her when the world’s disbelief threatened to crumble her. Threatened to pin her to the floor and not let her up until she gave in and lied to them, lied and told them she was lying before.
Just as the figure had pinned her, tried to own her, and broke her, the figure would make the world do the same.