Inside, he rushes to open the shower, letting hot water fill the surroundings with steam; he needs to be engulfed by the warmth, bones almost shaking. The reflection on the mirror obstructs gradually, but he wipes for a clearer image. He sees himself: pained, defeated. He hates it but dares not escape it; he has to face it, digest it. The discoloration in his abdomen is starting to see the light, a reminder of his interrogators’ CRUELTY. Under violence he doesn’t falter, merely lets out the signs of his humanity, but under violent, unwanted intimacy, he CRUMBLES, loses his composure, patience and tough exterior, the armor he built rips down to pieces, the mask behind it to shreds, nerves reminding him of their involuntary actions. The more he stares into his own distorted reflection, the harder it is to breath, his chest fails to rise, hands gripping the edge of the sink tightly it almost bruises- he doesn’t need more of these. No! He’s not allowed to panic, to lose it all now; he is not alone in this house, he cannot allow himself to fall to his knees now, not in front of someone like them, someone who would go beyond any boundaries to right what’s wrong, to AVENGE those who are wronged, and right now it happens to be him. They might be wielding the weapon, but he is the one who has sharpened it, he can’t and won’t have that blood on his hands.
The color of his lips must have been noticed by them, there is no way someone like them, someone who used to be a good cop, would not notice it, builds on it millions of theories before narrowing it down to the minimum possibilities, he has made it easier, hasn’t he? With how he has acted, thinking a jammed umbrella would make him escape it like a fine hair in dough. He barely mutters a curse under his breath, dragging his aching body into the tub, standing under the running water, hands against the coldness of the wall’s tiles. If only water could wash away his SHAME like it does the evidence of his misery: the blood caught in his sight, running down the drain, the dirt. He tries to be swift in cleansing his body, but the more he ventures, the more he is reminded of the lingering hands, of the pain where nothing should reach—
It slides off the back then medial of his thigh, the sight of the maroon liquid has never been more REPULSIVE to him. It takes all the strength in him to inspect for emergencies: it will heal in time.
It feels longer than it actually takes before he emerges from the bathroom, their figure standing across almost startles him, a sigh in relief in knowing who they are is let out silently. He can see it on their face: the concern. Shit. They actually have connected the dots and came out with a sound conclusion, haven’t they? His answer comes in their words and actions. Any other circumstances and he would have slipped out of this with words, intellectual excuses, but not tonight, not with the current state of his brain, heart and body. Their gaze is SHARP despite the warm worry and concern, STABBING right into his own, their stance occupies his field of sight, not for their built, no, his eyes could have easily found the surrounding, but for their demanding presence, CAGING his own, minuting it in comparison. His lips part to utter anything, any word for god’s sake, but nothing comes out, not a single sound. Choosing a bath robe instead of a towel wrapped around the waist has been a good choice, a deliberate one; it hides the evidence, the emerging bruises, and maybe if he is lucky, no blood comes out to slide along his leg again.
A single step to the back is taken; there is no escape behind, one more try and he might stumble and fall to the floor of the bathroom behind, and so he stands his ground. Something about this triggers something in him- Is it…fear? For a moment, he does look like a lamb knowing it is brought in for slaughter. The helplessness of it all, the lack of solutions and opportunities, the THREAT of being exposed. It all weighs heavy on his chest it stops momentarily- Does it, actually? Or is it just the illusion feeding on him? If his body doesn’t give him up, his eyes might; pupils dilating on their own accord, dancing between theirs as if to find an escape, a hideout. Left to right, right to left- until they manage to escape the other’s capture, gaze falling to the ground, closing shut; anything, anywhere but their demanding stare. ❝ Nothing! ❞ It comes quicker than intended, like a bullet they could easily deflect. ❝ Nothing happened, Elias.. ❞ As if they haven’t heard it the first time, he affirms, more in an attempt to calm than to actually voice his words. A mistake, furthering anyone’s suspicions. ❝ It’s cold. ❞ The first honest word, yet he merely says it for an escape route, eyes refusing to meet theirs yet. ❝ I need to get dry and dressed. ❞ He knows trying for a path is not an option with them.