Désiré Me 2
The pain in my wrist is acute, clarifying.
He says nothing. He looks at me, his face now completely closed. The coldness emanating from him is tangible, it drops the temperature of the room. His eyes are no longer steel, but polar ice. No trace of interest remains, no trace of that perverse curiosity. There is anger. A silent, absolutely terrifying anger.
He pulls slightly on my arm, with a sharp jerk, unbalancing me. I stumble towards him. With his other hand, he grabs my other wrist before I can attempt anything. In two moves, he holds me completely at his mercy, arms slightly spread, offered, vulnerable.
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