Sorry


His eyes rake over her, a hand slowly creeps toward the wand on his bed, afraid for the second time in his life as to what she might do to him when upset.

She knocks the full-length, oak-trimmed mirror down to the floor with a resounding crash. The high-pitched wail emitted from the enchanted glass causes him to flinch.

She takes this as a sign of weakness, that she might have an effect on his emotions and runs toward his chest of drawers, pulling out his clothing with reckless abandon.

Yet he still stands in the same place. Everything she’s destroying in anger can be replaced. He allows her free reign of his room, hoping that at the end of it she’ll have calmed down enough to have a civil conversation with him.

She stops mid-way in ripping a robe to shreds for she notices her reflection in the broken mirror.

What she sees there, he doesn’t know, but he does know that it has an effect on her.

A tear glides down her cheek as she drops the torn robe. It glistens in the dim candlelight of his room, making it stand out against the pink flush of her cheeks.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she’s in front of him, mirroring her tear’s path on his pale, pale skin. He allows it, closing his eyes as he revels in what might be the last time she’s able to touch him.

Then, she throws him for a curve – she presses her rosy lips against his. Her kiss starts off desperate, then morphs into something more.

She begins to mimic movements that he’s familiar with, movements that he would normally do to her.

He tries to hold back his response; he wants to give in, oh how he wants to, but he can’t. He made his choice and he must live with it.

She quickly realizes that she’s garnering no response from him and pulls away, violently rubbing at her even-rosier lips, disgusted with herself for even trying.

He lets his body loosen up slightly now that she’s no longer kissing him, but not enough to show that he’s sorry. No, now is not the time.

She looks back at the shattered mirror on the floor and lunges for the pieces. She piles them into her hands, not caring if she gets cut. She’s already in pain; the cuts are nothing new.

Satisfied, she flees; miraculously, not a single piece of glass falls from her cupped hands.

He waits for a moment and then follows her.

He knows not of her intent with the mirror shards, but he knows of his – he must apologize.

She runs with a purpose, attempting to hide from him as she sorts through her thoughts and emotions.

And still, he follows her, waiting for the perfect moment to approach her.

She sprints from his bedroom to the bathroom on the seventh floor, rushing to one of the many sinks as soon as she passes through the entrance. She turns on the tap, frantically rinsing the red, red blood off of her hands. She tries to pick the shards of glass out of her small, slender hands, marvelling in the never-ending flow the cuts create – some big, most small, barely discernible to the naked eye. She rushes to a toilet stall, any, to grab sheets upon sheets of toilet paper, placing it between her hands and squeezing, trying to hold stave off the flow.

Her hands are stained but she doesn’t care. She grabs more paper and wraps it around each hand like bandages, completely oblivious to the blond boy spying on her every move.

She moves back to the sink where the shards lay, arranging them into a heart on the white porcelain surface. He holds back a chuckle at the irony.

He’s reminded of what she had told him earlier. She tries to pick up the broken heart, whispering what he considers her new mantra.

“Why can’t you love me? Why can’t you love me? I’ll change for you; I’ll play the part.”

She’s now marvelling at the glass heart in her hands; the broken mirror fragments distorting her features. It’s the only time he ever finds her ugly, nearly ashamed in knowing that he caused this.

But he doesn’t apologize. No, not yet. He wants to know how long she can last without breaking down --- because she hasn’t broken down yet. She’s not even close. She’s only rage and incoherence right now. The shards in her hands belong on his mirror, the one she threw to the ground, believing it to be akin to what he did to her heart.

She opens her hands, letting the broken glass heart fall back into the sink with a tinkle, laughing at the scattered noise.

She looks down at her hands again, happy in that the pseudo-bandages she placed on them are working. They’re a gradient in blood – starting out a stark white around the edges, fading into a pale pink, finally ending in the darkest crimson at the core. She can’t help but stare again; mesmerized by the artistic way the thick liquid flows out of her veins.

He joins her in staring, enamoured by how the crimson on her hands matches her crimson hair. He contemplates walking up to her, closing her hands to wake him from his trance, but he decides against it; now is not the time to approach her.

She walks toward the exit, forcing him back into the shadows. Once cleared of the exit, she runs again, this time to the library, with him close behind her, always unbeknownst to her fragile mind.

He finds her by a window, sitting on the ledge, isolated by the shelves of books. It’s raining now and she’s drawing on the window with her index finger -- a heart, in two parts, wiping it away like the rain wipes the dirt off the window.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the sound barely audible to his keen ears.

The time is right.

He walks up to her. A slow, gliding walk that provides her with no alert to his presence.

He’s behind her, cradling her, rocking her as she finally breaks down.

She shivers, but tries to fight back, reaching her hands back to break free of his grip. He grabs her wrists in time, her fingers curling into fists, angered at being thwarted.

He’s finally able to silence her, keeping up the rocking motion that seems to soothe her shattered nerves, her shattered heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I am sorry.”

She smiles now.

Apology accepted.