Blush Selections - A Series of HS Shorts

Sessions: Part 2

Indigo and Harry. Part 2 of 3. 

Her panic attacks are always worse when she's home. For that, there is a reason. Although her defense against it is to avoid reality, she always suffers the same fate – an encounter with the reason. An encounter with that reality she hopelessly evades.

The peeling, white paint on the wall across her allows a brief moment of thoughtlessness, peaceful, serene, and invaluable thoughtlessness. Her glossed over eyes see nothing despite the way they follow the sporadic patterns marking the wall she desperately scrubbed once, but to no avail. Reality sets in quickly, and the marks, the chipped paint, and the grating sound the rusted plumbing echoes around the small apartment torture her. The blanket around her body weakly seals the cold temperatures in the living room. Their heating never works, and despite her attempts to fix it, the apartment is under Gino's name. The sunlight beaming past the parted curtains is all the warmth she can get. A book opened on her lap draws in closer as she tucks her knees in, her eyes landing on the novel where the words float off the paper. Unable to focus, she tightly shuts it and throws it into a pile of old books in the nearest corner.

A jolt of the door startles her, and her heart nearly bursts out of her chest at the sound of the creaking door opening. Sets of keys ring a subtle melody before it disappears. Her eyes squeeze shut in terror, her breath increasingly erratic as she suffers a silent, profuse attack of terror. Her mind alerts her to hide, but there's nowhere to go. And this reality is much worse than a vivid, painful nightmare that only occurs during the day. At night, she can alleviate herself from any nightmares that may creep in, spending the night away at the club under nauseating flashing lights and deafening music. There she finds peace, solace, and refuge from the unrest at home.

Gino's gruff, overpowering voice yells out, "Indigo! Where are you?" His footsteps echo as he rounds the corner, seeing her curled up into the couch. Her frame trembles, the cold worsening the shaking of her limbs. "What are you doing? Did you cook dinner?"

"It's in the fridge," she answers quickly, hoping that his only request is dinner. She avoids his dark eyes, the permanent anger that settles in them and across his worn face. His hands are usually dirty, rough and stained from the construction site. His heavy boots leave a trail of dirt that she raises up from her cocoon to clean before he explodes. He was a ticking time bomb, a dark-haired, bearded, prideful, sensitive time bomb that would explode and send shrapnel slicing through her skin. Her dread motivates her to swiftly clean the floors as she hears the fridge slam shut, her muscles tightening at the sharp, abrupt sound. The drum of his heavy boots creaking the wooden floors agitates her heartbeat, and a penetrating, searing pain begins as a single point in her chest before it radiates throughout her torso.

Gino stands in the kitchen, watching her slow, painstaking movements as the hum of the microwave disseminates across the small space. "How much have you made this week at the club? And don't fucking lie to me, or I'll smack the shit out of you," he sneers with disgust and rancor.

"I made eight hundred," Indigo answers promptly, knowing that any hesitation will be deemed as defiance.

"Where's the money? Bring it to me," Gino demands, and he walks over to her. The decreasing distance between them nauseates her, and she braces herself for his filthy hands to touch her. His leg kicks the broom from her hands, letting it fall onto the floor with a loud clatter. A hand wraps around her small arm, ruthlessly squeezing her and pulling her to stand up straight. Her warm eyes lock with his, the blackness of his irises inciting the tremors in her bones. "Get it. Now. Don't make me fucking repeat myself, I swear, Indigo."

She scatters to find her purse. Light-headed from the obvious panic attack she's undergoing, her eyes focus on digging the bills out of her bag as he watches. Within a few seconds, she approaches him to hand the money over. She jumps when he snatches it out of her hand, turning around to count it, licking the pad of his finger. Indigo shudders with sheer disgust, her eyes fixated onto the back of his head, expectantly and attentively scanning his body for any signs of retaliation. The microwave goes off, and she shuts her eyes as she flinches. Gino doesn't speak to her again and she watches him shove the money into the back pocket of his rugged jeans.