Page 41 of Paradox
With his oxygen cut completely off, his arms and legs squeeze around me.
I step forward, my elbow bending until his legs are forced against my chest and I’m as close to him as I can get. “There’s nothing about you that’sanythinglike me.”
“Who are you trying to convince?” The last of Jin’s words huff out, and within a few seconds his eyes shut completely and his body starts to droop in my arms. Taking my hand from his hair, I watch his head sag to the side right before his grip falls limply from around my wrist.
I know I’m hurting him.
I know I should let go.
But I just… I can't keep looking at him every day.
I ease up on my grip around his neck, and squat as I slide his body down the wall.
With his back on the floorboards, I stare down at him; so strong in his words, so weak in his body—my hand still around his neck and his legs hooked over my bicep.
“They might not have touched me in high school, but I fucked that many of them after I lost count,” I tell him like he has any idea what I’m saying, or would even care if he did. And as I withdraw my hand, I hang my head in shame, because, if anything, I just proved him right.
“Such a loser,” the most tiny, hoarse voice crackles. And when I look back at Jin, he has the cockiest grin on his drunk-looking face. “You might be stronger than me, but you’ll never be smarter.” With no time to react, he’s holding on to my arm again, and kicking his feet into my shoulders so hard that I fall backwards and bring him with me until he's squatting over my hips. Then, before I have a chance to grab him again, he's jumping off of me, snatching up the socks and raglan, and dashing away to lock himself in the bathroom.
“Could you go any slower?”
I slap my hands down on the rim of the kitchen sink. “Could you be any more impatient?”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Reaching back into the cold, soapy water, I mimic him under my breath.
“Don’t fuck with me, Jin.”
“Then don’t fuck with me.”
Most of the time I regret what I say the second the words leave my mouth, but I just can’t help it. Eden van der Hart is a walking, talking, brooding contradiction. And another week in, I’m still no closer to deciphering the way his brain works.
I talk back; he gets pissed.
I don’t say a thing; he gets pissed.
I look at him too long; he freaks out.
I don’t look at him at all; he freaks out.
I want to read; I’m too boring.
I want to go to sleep; I’m too boring.
I do the dishes as soon as we’re finished eating, I’m accused of trying to get away from him.
I wait to do the dishes until we need to use them again, I’m accused of being obsessed with him. The only constant is that I can do nothing right. But I guess I should be thankful that he hasn’t tried to choke me out again.
My black eye is gone, but his hand print around my neck is lingering a little longer than I’d like.
I’ve gotten to the point of avoiding the mirror. Once a day, for a few seconds, I look, then turn away. And when I’m not in the shower, I have my hood up until Eden goes to bed because I don’t need to give him the constant reminder, that, no matter how many years of Hapkido lessons I’ve taken, the only time I ever have the upper hand is when he’s completely let his guard down.
“For the love of fuck, I’ll eat off a dirty plate. Just get the hell over here.”
Gripping the sink again, I glare out the kitchen window. The tarps are down, and past the porch, the only colors that can be seen are white, green, and brown. It’s so fresh and pure out there. Total serenity. Nothing like in here and the shit fight that bounces around these four walls sixteen hours out of every day. I’d be out there right now if it weren’t for the dishes and the waist-high powder.
Pulling the plug from the sink, I leave the unscrubbed plate and mug where they lie, and wipe my hands.
