Before the Sun

Chapter Seventeen- Fake

Sofia

My bedroom is cold; it's filled with an uncomfortable silence and looming darkness. A slither of light creeps in from below the door, just enough for me to be able to see the outline of the space around me. There's a drilling in my head, repetitive and agonising, picking apart my brain and dissecting every nerve ending. No amount of medication relieves the pain. No amount of doctors appointments eases the after affects of poisoning. No amount of consolation fixes my torment.

Sixteen days ago I died. My heart stopped and my brain went cold. My body lost its life for an entire minute, and it feels like I've been dead ever since. Each day, each repetitive, droning day, moulded into the same cycle of pain, boredom and mental anguish. Yet, what hurts the most, is the stillness in our journey. The lack of progress in restarting my life. Because my entire life has been put on hold, every aspect of it, all because of one person. One sour person who has an objection to my existence. The person who stopped my heart is still out there, still walking the streets and smiling and laughing and living. But I am not.

I miss my life. I miss learning, I miss running, I miss Luis, I miss getting coffee at obscure times, I miss walking down the street without suspicions, and I miss Nikolai.

I miss him the most and I don't know what to do about the hollow feeling that punctures me every time I think of him- which is more than often.

I'm stuck here, laying in the frigid sheets of my bed, within the barren walls of this penthouse, my parents in a different building, and my new bodyguard in the room below me. My life is filled with chaos, overflowing with pain and torment- and all I want is him back, because I'd be feeling pain, but at least I'd be feeling pain with him and not alone. At least he would find the strange moments to make me laugh, push me when I want to remain held back, save me in the moments I need to be rescued. At least I would have a tiny piece of happiness in my life.

I hear movement come from the floor beneath, a few rattles and the squeak of a mattress followed by a patter of feet. I listen to Tank move across the bottom floor, his heavy feet ricocheting through the penthouse. I huff a sigh and roll my eyes, pressing a pillow over my ears in hopes the cotton will muffle his insensitive antics.

Tank is Tank. I know nothing about him and he knows nothing about me. Truth be told, I'm not even sure what his real name is. My father called him Tank once, and that has been his tag ever since. He's on the shorter side, much lower than Nikolai, though he's wide- big, broad shoulders stretching him out. He's older- a bald head with a rough and gravelly Mexican accent. That is all I know about the man. There have been times where I've tried to make small talk, to get to know the man living in my house, but Tank isn't a talker. He believes to keep my father happy our relationship must not become personal, friendly or filled with any spec of happiness. So Tank is just Tank, a man that was sentenced to guard my hospital room and my life.

The pillow doesn't shield the sounds from below, in-fact they only grow louder. The movements are heavy and angry, as if the man is aggravated. They continue for a few more moments until it all comes to an abrupt stop. Silence engulfs the building. My eyes are open wide, as if they will aid my hearing. I listen, focusing my attention on the little noises. I hear footsteps, lighter this time. They're nearing, crawling the stairs one by one, slow and relaxed. I listen to them float all the way to my door. Turning on my side, I give the entrance my back and glue my eyes shut. Tank does this sometimes- makes sure I'm still alive.

The door creaks as it opens, I see the light invade the room even through my closed lids. He walks into my space briefly, his steps hushed. I can feel him, his presence engulfing my back. I feel his knee taunt the edge of the bed as his body slightly leans over mine. I find this part strange. The bit where he holds a finger beneath my nose and waits for a breath to hit his skin. But he doesn't do it today. Instead, a hand catches a clump of hair and pushes it behind my ear. I have to fight to keep my eyes closed, to keep my body still and frozen. I beg myself not to recoil away from his touch, even when he doubles over a presses a hot kiss to my temple. His stubble scratches my skin, piercing my flesh like pin pricks. My heart is in my throat, gagging at the odd unprofessionalism.