He always said he’d never go back. He despised cowering away, having her sorrowing gaze watch him from that chair. He had so much hatred for those hollow, lifeless eyes how he loathed them. How he loathed her. A woman who embodied the worst of him. A woman whose appearance resembled that of his darkened psyche.

“I hate you,” he’d tell her. He despised how his heart wrenched when they were close, or when her gentle touches ignited a flame within his chest that only fueled his disgust. She was a pale, lifeless corpse of his mind. One that could only watch as he cried until his eyes were swollen shut. His cheeks were red and irritated by the constant rubbing of his hands wiping away tears. He was always trapped in a state where all he craved was a warm hand to hold, one that could keep him sane in dizzying despair. He’d reach out and touch her wrinkling hand. Her cold touch couldn’t satisfy his need for comfort, but he accepted it nonetheless. She never pulled away, even though she knew how much he loathed her existence. 

She should have hated him back. He kept her all alone in that room, with no windows, and a nauseating smell that could be compared to a decaying carcass. She was locked behind a door to which only he held a key. He kept her there, isolated from everyone. She should have detested him. Yet somehow, guilt was all she could feel for him, the regret of being the one thing keeping him from letting go. She’d watched him grow into resenting her. She watched him, as a young child, open the door for the first time. He greeted her curiously, frightened by her shrivelled visage. His cold, lonely eyes resembled her own. She always felt he was too young to have those same eyes that held so much disdain towards the world. Her guilt came from being able to do nothing but watch and comfort him, with what little she could. Over time, that fear dwindled, and the curiousness he felt transformed into hatred. 

“I know you do.” She rasped. “But you continue to meet me. You continue to come here and hold my hand.”

He sighed. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You do. You have them, and they care for you, they worry about you. Talking to them about me is what is best for you.” 

“They’ll shun me. They’ll hate me.” It was a fear that only existed in his mind. A mind with walls so thin, one could cut them with a knife. Those walls were somehow dented, the wood rotting away. Slowly, they would break. It was only a matter of time. 

“They’re family. You can let them in.” She said. 

“Were you even listening to me?” 

“I was.”

“Then why would you say that again?” 

“Because everything you said was a lie.” She replied. “You’re scared of losing me.” 

It was the undeniable truth. He couldn’t lie to her, because one can’t lie to oneself. “You’re scared that the moment you let them know of me, they’ll try to take me away, and you need me.”

“I don’t need you.” 

“You do need me.” For the first time, she moved her stiff, bony body. Her skin was so sunken, it nearly stuck to her bones. Her greasy, clumped black hair moved with her as she leaned to the side, where the boy sat on the floor. “You need me to survive them.” 

It was as if she finally hit a nerve. He stood abruptly, shoving away the hand he held so tightly before. He angrily threw open the door, stomping out. The light that shone from outside illuminated a part of the dim room. Some of that light fell onto her sensitive skin, a refreshing warmth that soon disappeared once the door had closed. There was a click of the lock, then footsteps slowly fleeing away.

She was alone once more, in a bleak, locked room made by the person who created her.