THE STRANGER IN HIS HANDS
1328 Words
The more Christopher paced around the room, the angrier he became.
His thoughts refused to settle.
Every image of Jojo standing beside another man replayed endlessly in his mind, fueling a rage he could no longer control.
As he paced, his eyes landed on a small fruit tray sitting on the bedside table. Several oranges rested inside it, and beside them lay a kitchen knife.
Without thinking, he picked it up.
Jojo froze.
For the first time that night, genuine fear appeared in her eyes.
"Chris..." she said shakily. "What are you doing?"
Christopher looked at the knife in his hand and then back at her.
A frightening smile stretched across his face.
At that moment, he no longer seemed like the man she had known for years.
He looked like a stranger.
A dangerous stranger.
Jojo slowly stepped backward.
"Chris, stop joking around."
He continued advancing.
Every step he took forced her another step back.
His eyes were wild with anger.
All he could think about was the man he had seen hugging her.
All he could hear were the words she had just spoken.
I don't belong to you.
The sentence echoed through his mind like an insult.
"Chris, please..."
Fear now dominated her voice.
But he wasn't listening.
His anger had swallowed reason whole.
Jojo backed away until her foot caught against a stool.
She lost her balance and crashed onto the floor.
A terrified scream escaped her lips as Christopher lunged forward.
She begged.
She pleaded.
She cried.
But her words barely registered.
The room seemed to spin around him.
Everything happened so quickly.
Then suddenly—
A scream.
A horrible scream.
The sound shattered through the haze clouding his mind.
Christopher froze.
Reality crashed into him with brutal force.
His breathing stopped.
His heart seemed to cease beating.
Blood stained his hands.
Blood stained her clothes.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Unable to move.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to comprehend what he had done.
"Jojo..."
The knife slipped from his fingers.
His entire body trembled.
"No... no... no..."
But it was already too late.
The damage had been done.
Hours later, Christopher sat alone in his apartment.
An empty bottle rolled across the floor.
Then another.
Then another.
He had completely lost count.
The alcohol burned his throat, but it failed to dull the pain clawing at his chest.
He poured himself another glass.
His hands shook violently.
His eyes were swollen and red.
Even now, he couldn't believe it.
He had destroyed the one thing he had wanted most.
The one woman he had ever truly loved.
The woman he had spent years dreaming about.
The woman he had hoped would one day choose him.
Instead, he had become the reason she would never smile again.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
How ironic.
The man who claimed to love her more than anyone else had become the one who hurt her the most.
Christopher drained the glass and smashed it against the wall.
The sound echoed through the apartment.
Tears streamed freely down his face.
Yet beneath the grief, another emotion slowly emerged.
Hatred.
His mind returned to the man he had seen with Jojo earlier that day.
The hug.
The smile.
The laughter.
His jaw clenched.
"If I am suffering now," he muttered hoarsely, "then he will suffer too."
His eyes darkened.
"I'll find him."
His fists tightened.
"And when I do, I'll make him pay."
The promise settled firmly in his heart.
*****
Meanwhile, several miles away, Camilla Rogers sat comfortably inside Alexander's bedroom.
She had absolutely no intention of leaving.
The mansion was enormous.
Five spacious bedrooms, a gym, a laundry room, and a beautifully designed living area.
Everything about the house reflected Alexander's refined taste.
One of the reasons she had fallen for him was his success.
The man always chose the best.
The best clothes.
The best cars.
The best houses.
And soon enough, she intended to become the best wife.
Earlier that evening, they had argued again.
The topic was the same one they had argued about repeatedly.
Their wedding.
Camilla saw no reason for delay.
They were officially engaged.
Why wasn't Alexander meeting her parents?
Why wasn't he setting a wedding date?
Why wasn't he taking the next step?
To her, his hesitation made no sense.
The argument had lasted nearly two hours before Alexander finally stormed out.
Most women would have gone home afterward.
Camilla wasn't most women.
She fully intended to remain right where she was.
In fact, she planned to continue the argument the moment he returned.
A satisfied smile appeared on her face.
Her friends had taught her well.
Men needed firm control.
If a woman was too soft and understanding, men would take advantage of her and run into the arms of other women.
Camilla wasn't about to let that happen.
Not after spending three years securing Alexander's heart.She had worked too hard for that engagement ring.
And she had no intention of losing her place.
Suddenly, the sound of a car horn shattered the silence.
Camilla frowned.
She stood and walked toward the window.
Alexander was home.
Outside, Alexander practically jumped out of the vehicle before the engine had fully stopped.
Rainwater dripped from his clothes as he hurried to the back seat.
Margaret rushed forward immediately.
The moment she saw the unconscious girl, she gasped.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Never in her life had she seen someone covered in so much mud.
For one frightening moment, she wondered if the girl was dead.
Alexander quickly checked her pulse.
A wave of relief swept through him when he felt the weak but steady beat beneath his fingertips.
She was still alive.
Thank God.
Turning around, he noticed Margaret standing motionless behind him.
"Don't just stand there staring," he snapped. "Open the door!"
The sharpness in his voice startled her.
She hurried away immediately.
Alexander carefully lifted the girl into his arms.
She felt impossibly light.
Almost fragile.
As he approached the entrance, a familiar voice stopped him.
"What exactly is that thing you're carrying?"
Alexander closed his eyes briefly.
Camilla.
He had completely forgotten she was there.
Opening his eyes, he found her standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.
Disgust was written all over her face.
For several seconds, he simply stared at her.
Not because he didn't know what to say.
But because he was afraid of what he might say.
The girl in his arms needed help.
This was not the time.
"Camilla," he said through clenched teeth, "move."
She didn't budge.
Instead, she wrinkled her nose.
"I asked you a question."to
Alexander's patience snapped.
"Move."
"No."
Her chin lifted defiantly.
"What is that piece of trash you're carrying into the house?"
The words ignited something dangerous inside him.
His eyes blazed with fury.
"Leave my way, Camilla!"
The roar echoed through the entrance hall.
Even Margaret flinched.
Camilla stood her ground.
Without another word, Alexander pushed past her.
She stumbled backward and fell to the floor in shock.
Ignoring her outraged gasp, he marched into the house.
His focus remained entirely on the injured girl.
Nothing else mattered.
Margaret hurried ahead and opened the nearest guest room.
Alexander entered and gently placed the girl on the bed.
For a moment, he simply stood there looking at her.
Mud covered almost every inch of her body.
The injury on her stomach looked serious.
She appeared so small.
So vulnerable.
Based on her size, she couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen.
A surge of pity tightened his chest.
Who was she?
What had happened to her?
And how had she ended up abandoned inside a sack on a lonely road?
Alexander ran a hand through his wet hair.
He hated feeling helpless.
He knew nothing about medicine.
Nothing about treating wounds.
Nothing about helping her.
All he could do was wait for Doctor Fred.
And pray that he wasn't already too late
- Writer
