The amusement in his voice makes me stiffen. I do not look up from the book my eyes scan over, but cannot comprehend. I flip a page as he looms over me, intimidating me, a goofy grin on his face. His bony fingers settle on my shoulders, and it startles me, but I only blink in response, turning another page of my book.
"I know you aren't reading that," he whispers into my right ear, hoarsely chuckling and then leaving my presence altogether. I snap the piece of literature shut, throwing it onto the coffee table that sits in front of me and I cross my arms over my chest. He appears again, beside me. Without any warning, he yanks the edge of my dress up. I make a noise of protest, but do not move to stop him.
He carefully counts the blooming scars against my pale skin as I fidget, looking away. He's laughing under his breath, smirking as he counts the lines that once oozed blood all over my hands. My thighs shake under the scrutiny.
"But, it's Thursday. Why are you still alive? You should be dead by now, right? Unless I'm counting these cuts wrong."
"Maybe you should recount, bastard. Or maybe you should realize I'm just stronger than you now."
"Hah! That's a great joke. Planning to be a comedian?" He grins up at me, grabbing my jaw and almost puncturing the skin from how his nails dig into my face. His grip is bruising, and I can feel a sneer come onto my face. It's routine. He takes my face, turning it every which way as he inspects my sunken cheeks and the dark circles under my eyes. Finally, he lets me go, stroking his fingers down my face with a pitiful pout adorning his mouth.
"You look like a flower. All wilting and shit. You'll most likely be dead again by Saturday."
"You can't kill me this time."
"Are you so sure?"
He shoves me down on the couch, tangling our limbs together as I stare passively into the ceiling. Though he growls, I look anywhere but to him, even when he pinches the skin on my hips. He calls for me to look at him, but I can barely hear any of the words he says. I am lost in the sea of light that peeks from the window, and the dust glittering the air.
"It would be easier if he had just killed you."