The One Who Watches - Raine

The groper lets go of me like he’s been burned, stumbling back against the wall, eyes wide and locked on the figure in black. He doesn’t say a word, just drops, knees first. Hits the floor with a thud and stays there, breathing fast, mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to explain, trying to beg, but no sound comes out.

The room stretches out in silence. I don’t know the stranger, but this guy does.

The air still feels wrong, too thick and charged, but it’s nothing compared to the man standing at the edge of the light. He hasn’t moved really, just one foot forward, arms loose at his sides, posture too still to be anything human.

I blink, trying to make sense of him.

The stranger, a full head taller than anyone I’ve seen in this place, is built like he could crush someone with one hand and not blink. His suit is black-on-black, tailored to his shoulders, but it’s the tattoos that pull me in.

They crawl up his neck, the centrepiece a moth right across his throat. Etched into tanned skin, curling beneath his jaw and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. They stop just shy of his cheekbone, where a fine line of ink dips behind his ear.

He clicks his knuckles, drawing my full attention to his hands. Veined, calloused and huge. Both of them inked from the wrists to the knuckles, a swirling storm of black symbols and patterns I can’t read. One hand flexes at his side, remembering violence.

His face, when I finally dare to really look at it, is beautiful in a way that makes my stomach twist. Not soft, not pretty. Harsh, sculpted, eyes that don’t just look, they burn.

And they still aren’t on me, they’re on him.

They each take an arm and haul him upright without a word, one on either side. He squeals as his feet drag against the floor, legs kicking, hands flailing, pathetic and wild. There’s no struggle in it. It’s already over, he knows it. Everyone in the room does.

I can still smell him on me.

His sweat. His breath. The sour trace of alcohol and smoke and something worse, something older, filth that’s been allowed to settle too deep into skin. It’s clinging to my clothes, pressed into the curve of my shoulder, soaked into the place where his hand had fisted my jacket.

I’ve forgotten how to move. My body’s frozen halfway between defense and collapse, suspended in that raw, humming space between fear and shame. My hands hang limp at my sides, palms itching, nails bitten raw.

He’s being dragged down the hallway like garbage no one wants to claim. It’s as if time has stopped just long enough to make sure I won’t forget this part.

The man in black, him, finally turns his head.

And looks at me.

The impact is instant. His gaze is colder than it has any right to be. Pale, steel-cut eyes that don’t soften or narrow or flicker, press into me.

Whatever he finds, it doesn’t impress him.

My throat constricts. I open my mouth, but the words stall, too many thoughts trying to force their way out at once. I try again.

“Thank you,” I manage, barely audible. “I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t…I…”

He tilts his head, just slightly, I’m an object under glass.

Embarrassment flushes hot up my neck. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to disappear into the loose folds of my hoodie. My fingers curl into the sleeves, anchoring me, holding me together.

“Thank you,” I whisper again. “I didn’t know what he was going to do, I was scared, I just... I didn’t think anyone…”

His lip curls. Not in amusement, in disgust.

“You should’ve screamed at least.”

There’s no cruelty in the words. That might’ve been easier, cruelty I’d understand. Cruelty I’m used to. But this, this blank dismissal, this casual contempt, it cuts deeper.

He turns before I can answer, walks away like none of this meant anything at all.

And maybe to him, it didn’t.

I stay frozen long after he’s gone, standing alone in the dim room, my shirt still damp with dirty mop water and panic. It feels even emptier now. Like it’s trying to erase the last five minutes, wipe it clean like it never happened.

My legs finally move. If I don’t get behind a locked door soon, I might scream after all.

I have a room at the motel that I call home. I close the door softly behind me, double-lock it, then wedge the chair under the handle for good measure. My hands shake so badly I can’t unzip my hoodie. I sink down onto the bed instead, still in my work clothes, shoes muddying the sheets, heart refusing to calm.

I don’t cry, just sit there, staring at the opposite wall, listening to the silence press in.

It hits me. A wave of shame and relief and exhaustion so heavy I can’t breathe through it. The tears come without sound, slipping down my cheeks while my body stays perfectly still.

No sobs, just salt.

I wipe them away with the sleeve of my hoodie, forcing my eyes shut. Trying to forget his voice.

‘Touch her again, and I’ll take your fucking balls.’

I don’t know who he is. Or why he was there. Or why he looked at me like I was something pathetic beneath his boot. But he stopped it.

He stopped it, and then he left, and now I’m…

Alone.

Again.

I don’t bother undressing, just crawl onto the bed, shoes and all, and lie stiff on top of the blanket, facing the wall hoping it might protect me from the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. I tell myself it’s over. Tomorrow I’ll leave, find somewhere safer. Somewhere no one knows me. I can disappear again.

But I don’t sleep.

I just lie here.

The silence outside buzzes beneath my skin, too still to be real. Like the whole world is waiting to exhale. Then, barely audible through the cracked window frame, I hear it.

The low purr of a car engine.

My bed sits just beneath the window. The curtains are thin, cheap polyester, nothing that could hide me if someone really wanted to look. I reach up with shaking fingers, press my palm flat to the fabric, and slide it aside just enough to peer out.

Streetlight glare floods the room in gold.

And there he is.

Parked directly across from my window in a sleek black car that looks out of place on this street, too expensive, too quiet, too clean. The engine is still running, the soft idle rumbling through the glass. His hand rests loose on the wheel, the other elbow braced casually against the door. His fingers tap against his lower lip.

He’s staring up, right at me.

I don’t know how he sees through this sliver of fabric, through shadows and distance, but he does. I feel it in my chest before I register it with my eyes, his gaze, sharp and steady, pinning me.

One hand moves, a single inked finger, raises it to his throat, and taps.

Exactly where the other man touched me.