I'd never felt as though I had a bad relationship with floors. Four times out of ten I'd choose to sit on the floor rather than my bed, there was never any reasoning behind it, it was just something I had done. But now, as I sat here, on this floor, I couldn't help but hold a feeling of resentment towards the inanimate object.
The agony it caused my body seemed to be never ending. But then again, I was deflecting. It wasn't about the floor, it wasn't even about Noah. It was about me. Because some twisted, demented part inside of me was praying Noah would just give me a physical punishment. Anything that would get me out of this torture, in my mind if Noah punished me, at least he would be communicating with me in some way. And that seemed so much better than this.
All I had was his silen
