The Face That Was Not Her Own

Word Count: 189


An unpleasant rush of blood pulsed through her temples at the sight. A tingling in her fingertips cut through the otherwise numb of her hands as she curled them into fists. Breathing shallowly, she sunk into the nearest chair, pristinely crossing one leg over the other as the glared daggers into him from across the room. How dare he...

She could not lose composure, could not allow others there to see all she was feeling. The muscles throughout her body quivered and ached to launch into action, to yell and scream and rage. But no, that could not happen.

Her eyes widened as his hands wandered lazily over thighs and knees that were not her own. Ghosts of those hands burned across her skin, in tandem with their current paths. As he laughed, leaned in for a small kiss, his breath, forever full of peppermint and tobacco, scalded her tongue and nose. The face that was not her own melted into a contented smile. She swallowed thickly.

Forcing her gaze away, she stood, icicles of injustice cracking and falling from her limbs as she moved stiffly out the door.