@leavethehxrtbehind
“Stop!” Meg couldn’t tell if the screaming was simply in her head or falling from dry lips. It was only when her hands found his chest to shove him far away from herself that it vaguely registered as real.
Shared between them had been moments of tenderness, but it was never Meg’s cause. For all she was concerned, this blessing was still a man.
It suddenly dawned on her how much Valjean had to piece together. Meg let him see a very limited version of herself, of everything to do with her. She hated the word abuse, it created pity where it was not wanted; no matter how many kind words he had in reply, it wouldn’t change what had happened. It wouldn’t change the things Meg had let happen.
The bitter taste of alcohol welcomed her home more than his words did. Weeks of unspoken effort had been instantly washed away. She clung to an empty bottle, its liquid replaced by heavy tears and the inability to snatch a breath. Spiteful words rested against the tip of her tongue, she wanted him gone. She was too exposed, he would go for the kill.
He would be exactly like the rest of them.
“It’s a pointless thing. How is anything ever going to get better?” Her voice was shrill against his silence. Anger had become so foreign during the months they had known each other, but now it was boiling over the edge. “You and I should both know how dangerous such a mistake vulnerability is.”
The word, so harsh in its delivery, took him aback but he still stood his ground. Though offered with some force, her shove had minimal effect. It was the emotion that truly took a toll. Over the past months he’d come to think of her as a friend. Perhaps his lack of experience had left him with skewed vision— he hadn’t known this could come of friendship.
He obeyed; what other course did he possess? He froze in place, every muscle tensed as if in preparation for further blows, but his eyes remained fixed on her. Was that a threat? Although he was beyond peril, everyone who mattered already knew, he still felt a chill pass through him.
Mouth dry, Valjean finally found the wherewithal to answer. “I never wanted to— I wasn’t ready to show you my scars but you saw, and it was you who told me they were in the past. So, it’s worth believing for me but not for you?”
He wasn’t truly angry, not yet; just confused and hurt, which in some ways was worse still. Like the dog who was kicked for punishment, he would have accepted this better if he knew where he’d stepped wrongly.
