Page 3 of Whispers of Ruin

When he steps into the bathroom looking for me, I undress in silence. The moment my shirt slips from my shoulders, I flinch, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest.

Julian watches me, confused, mostly impatient. He unbuttons his jeans, the soft scrape of fabric against skin filling the space between us.

Before I can protest, he presses me against the wet shower wall, scalding water running down my back. His lips claim mine—urgent, demanding. Sadly, all I feel is the cold detachment settling deep in my bones.

The image of the stranger suddenly invades my skull. I know nothing about this mysterious encounter, nor the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. Yet my imagination takes great pleasure in recreating the missing elements that helped form the growing goosebumps on my legs.

Julian’s mouth moves lower, his breath hot against my throat. I am not feeling him though. I feel a gloved hand closing around my neck. Fingers tightening, letting my poor mouth gasping.

Julian’s hard cock slides between my thighs. His body presses forward. But the sensation feels off. As if it is happening to someone else.

I have been struggling for a while to get passionate. Anxiety maybe, I don’t know… He is getting tired of it, which is understandable.

The unsettling thoughts are flowing through my head while my movements start to get detached. I feel my mind flying away, so does Julian’s patience. I can see his anger bubbling up, his jaw clenching, the muscles in his neck visibly tensed. His eyebrows furrow deeply over his eyes as he starts to growl.

“I’ve been more than patient with you.”

“I know…” I say, just as my lip starts trembling. The hot water is still pouring, covering up my incoming tears.

“I will do better next time, I promise…”

Julian chuckles, getting more distant, clearly disappointed.

“Sure, babe. Sure…”

I begin to wash my red hair, crying softly and silently just as he pushes furiously through the glass door to get out into the cold bathroom.

I am so useless and incompetent. The same way I have been three to four nights a week for months now.

What kind of girlfriend am I if I cannot give him what he needs?

Ashitty one, that’s who.

Iwake up slowly to the soft light filtering through the blinds. The apartment is quiet—almost too quiet. I swing my legs off the bed and sit on the border, my feet meeting the cool floor.

The discomfort from yesterday has not faded, the echo of someone watching me, although the rest of the apartment is empty.

I glance at Julian, oblivious to the tornado brewing inside me, the constant loneliness even when surrounded by the people I cherish the most. He would not understand anyway. He never does and kind of always takes things I say very personally.

Sighing, I make my way to the kitchen, hoping the routine of making coffee will calm me. The familiar smell fills the room, grounding my head. I almost feel normal.

Suddenly, the image of that man flashes in my mind again—the way he stood in the shadows, so still, so silent, so… commanding. I shake my head, trying to brush it off even if the thought stays, refusing to fade.

I close my eyes, breathing through the tension in my chest—and lower. No matter how much I tell myself to stop, there is a part of me that clearly does not want to. Because, in some strange and perverted way, that memory alone makes me feel more alive than I have felt for so long.

I open my eyes and pour the coffee, my hands steady despite the whirlwind in my head. I focus on the small, casual motions—the clink of the mug, the swirl of steam—trying to drown out the sensation of danger that still inhabits my mind.

Maybe today will be different. Maybe this feeling will finally fade.

Deep down, I know it won’t.

I take a sip, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the beverage in my hands. The fridge is the only sound breaking the room. For a brief moment, I almost convince myself that everything is fine—normal, even.

That’s when I hear it. A faint creak.

It surely is nothing… You’re turning more paranoid than a chihuahua on espresso.

Just the apartment settling. Still, my grip on the mug clutches, I look toward the hallway. I set the cup down and force myself to check, you know, just in case. I walk through the apartment, opening closets and wardrobes. There is no sign of anything out of place.

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