Trainwreck Claustrophobics

You're there again, leaning against the grain of a dilapidated wall, fingers pulling nervously at the fringe of your sleeve. Your eyes jerk at every sound today, jumping from place to place, and I wonder what has you so scared this time. For now, I'll continue standing here, my hands in my pockets though. In about fifteen minutes I'll walk to you- and we'll converse. Just like I have for the past month or two now. Longer maybe- I lose track of time so easily now.

"Have the time fair stranger?"
"10 minutes to go," There's that stinging accusation, and I wonder how attached you have become to my presence. In your words I can hear the anger, the fact that it hurt you- that I was late, that you still don't know my name, that I probably won't ever tell you. You will settle though, as you always do. You settled for the relationship you're in after all, you agreed to let a complete stranger in: What if I had been crazy? A stalker? Do you really think it would have been better than your current situation? Most likely, but that's not it, is it? This relationship is based on trust, which you have in me- and I have in no one. Such an unfair situation, but I wouldn't be here if I didn't have the upper hand.

"I-" you're trying to explain away the anger now, trying to put words to your emotions, and I won't even give you that courtesy. A frown tugs at your lips as I bring my index finger to your face, tapping your nose slightly in amusement. For a few minutes we stand here, soaking in the silence of the train station. Subtly, you lean closer to me, and I know that it is not because you are cold- as you have made the claim far too many times, but because you want human contact. Or rather, you want kind human contact, which I offer in the form of your head against my shoulder.

I will not give you more- you would become far too greedy should I, and I am not in the position to stand up against your demons for you. One day, you will expect it of me, just as you will expect to know my name- but you will be disappointed sorely. My name is not for your pleasure, and I am not a knight in shining armor. I am a cruel man, much like the one you are running from. I live to disappoint.
******

( Three months prior)

I've been watching you for weeks now, straining my eyes to take in subtle details, things that no one else will notice. For instance, the fact that when nervous, you run your nails over the top of your hand, pressing down just hard enough to scratch the surface. More often than not, there is a bruise somewhere on your body, and it makes me sick to see you finger the edges, cringing. You know they are there, even when hidden- and I know they are there only by slips of chance. Most of the time you are good at hiding these things, motions kept to a minimum, but every now and then you stretch and expose them to the world.

Your hair is stringy, long and blond, and your skin far too pale. Only a sick man would consider you pretty, darling. Yet there are plenty of men who fit in that category, apparently, if one notices how many men look your way. Or perhaps, it is simply because you look so vulnerable now, with the sleeves of your blouse falling over the edges of your hands, biting at your lower lip, as though worrying it takes your mind off of what is going to happen next. Part of me knows, that should I ever get close enough to touch you, I would feel ribs, for you are nothing but a stick.

My mind races with possibilities of why you look the way you do. Poverty could have done this, but you dress too classy for me to really consider that notion for long. Abusive parents, but you look too old to be in the house- actually that is a lie. You look no older than eighteen, but it is rather the ring about your finger that tells me which assumption is more probable. Part of me knows, that when you arrive home, there will be no loving man to greet you. He is most likely brash and bold.

I can only imagine that he is a hot shot, stressed out from work. That in his mind, that is his justification. There is no justification for the marks on your hips, and part of me wants to approach you- to tell you this. I will not though, I do not trust myself to make the right decisions in this situation. I do not trust you not to take what I cannot give until I am nothing. It has happened far too many times, and I am left with an odd taste in my mouth.

Truth is though, I have to approach you eventually, if only to ask the time. I have been watching you for far too long to let this go so easily. I must know your story- for if I do not find out through you, my obsession may lead me to do far worse things than just watch you. I cannot trust myself to not follow you home, to find out just why you have those marks. So I must formulate a plan of action. I have to figure out a way to make you comfortable enough to talk to me, but make sure that I am far enough away that I cannot get hurt.

I am drawn to your vulnerability, to the way you cling to that brick wall- as though it can save you from yourself. As I said before, it would take a sick man to call you pretty, but I myself grow sicker as the week wear on. At first, it was nothing. Just a glimpse of finger marks along your wrist, and your darting eyes. Yet the next time I saw you, you were shaking, and clutching at your stomach. I wonder if it was from hunger, or if he broke one of your ribs. Is he that cruel? Does he not notice that other humans feel pain as well? Perhaps not. Or perhaps he does, but it is a vicious cycle, hard to break from.

I would know after all. My fingers stray to the wedding band in my back pocket, trying to remember what caused everything to crumble in that situation. Is he an alcoholic? An addict? If so- I could understand, though it does not give him any justification. Is he plagued by demons that I couldn't possibly imagine? Or is he simply a fool on a power trip? I'm dying to know at this point, dying to understand what makes one stay with a man such as that.

Such as me.

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