The man sat at the bedside in a rickety metal chair. Chips of white paint had become permanently embedded in the thick cloth fabric of his trousers from the length of his stay. He stared across the bed at the sleeping face of Yanire, chest thick with regret and self loathing. The dark purple bruises around her neck had become more and more vibrant with each day that she slept. It made Martien sick with himself to know that he had painted such ugly things on her otherwise smooth skin.
"How can you ever forgive me?"
His voice was scratchy and hoarse from not having had water. He held his hands firmly about his lap, not allowing them to move even an inch closer to her. He had become something wretched, something unrecognizable.
"I don't deserve your forgiveness, I know. But please understand, my dear, I have repented for it."
