An abortive Attempt
608 Words
Emma had slipped into the stable like one seeking refuge. The air was heavier there, saturated with damp hay and a strange, almost veiled calm. She approached Galante's stall, the old piebald mare who snorted softly, indifferent to the tempest beneath her visitor’s skin. Emma reached out, stroked the dusty mane. A suspended moment. Her fingers sought something more than rough hair: they were rummaging through memory.
She stayed there, soaking in the thick silence. A breath behind her shattered the semblance of peace she'd barely managed to find.
"Are you planning to sleep here?"
Serge's voice was still mocking, but without its usual sparkle. He had approached without her hearing him.
She straightened abruptly, a little too quickly.
"I just wanted… some air."
Did I feel obligated to answer him? Not after what he’d just done to me. And what had I just done?
Serge remained on the threshold of the entrance, arms crossed. The light behind him cast an almost hostile silhouette.
"Some air, huh? In a stable…"
She avoided his gaze. And chose not to acknowledge his remark.
"Do you want to ride? We could go out for a bit, Galante’s still in good shape," she said.
He sketched a smile. One of those that curve the lips without reaching the eyes.
"I have better things to do."
She looked at him, incredulous.
"Better than… this? Like what?" she threw at him, her voice soft.
"I have better things than raking up the past, my dear."
He turned on his heel, without another word. The wooden door creaked, then nothing. Emma felt an emptiness shake her insides, like a blow without contact.
But it was, of course, a slap he’d just given me; he really did slap me. He had just slapped me emotionally, without the slightest emotion. I hate him, I’m not going to forgive him for this.
She exhaled, her nostrils flaring. Why had she stayed when he arrived in the stable? For this? To hit this lukewarm wall he erected between them every time she tried to get close?
She walked out, seething but contained. Her feet struck the dry ground harder than necessary. As she reached the porch steps, her heel slipped on a dislodged stone. A cracking sound echoed. A mute scream erupted from this misstep. The pain of that uncontrolled movement flared beneath her ankle.
She collapsed to her knees, hands clutching the porch railing, breath ragged.
"Emma!"
He had materialized from nowhere. This time, his voice betrayed something else. An urgency. Fear? No… something else, more troubled.
He knelt beside her, his arms under her shoulders. That alone dissolved most of her pain. She refused to meet his gaze. Not after what he’d done to her just moments ago. But her skin, it tingled beneath his. He carried her without a word to the living room sofa. The interior of the house was bathed in a pale light.
She didn't speak. Nor did he.
But she could still feel his arms. The quiet firmness with which he had lifted her. As if she weighed less than an intention.
She wanted to thank him for rescuing her, but the humiliation she had just suffered prevented her from expressing it. It made her furious. She wanted to scream at him for his slowness in helping her. That he was slow and cruel given the urgency. Didn’t he see her crying out in pain and agony?
But what’s stopping him from getting me emergency bandages like Clark Kent rushing to his beloved's rescue?
She stayed there. For a long time. The silence, this time, was less a refuge than a torment.
- Writer
