"Mad World" by Gary Jules
Jimmy's words etched various thoughts into the hollows of my mind, weaving silent notes as we climbed the staircase to the first floor. Upon pushing open the door, he turned, closing it behind me. The spacious bedroom stretched out before me, making the walls of my tiny apartment seem even more cramped.
A panoramic view of New York City spread beyond the windows, while the bed, wrapped in black silk sheets, took center stage, flanked by a sizable mirror. To the left, a transparent glass wall encased the bathroom, suggesting Apollo's disregard for privacy, and the dark marble tiles painted the bedroom floor with luxury.
My fingers traced the silk sheets as I walked toward the closet, where my suitcase lay.
Kneeling, I unzipped it, retrieving a pajama set gifted by Rose last Christmas. The fluffiness of the fabric offered peace in the chaos growing here. Rising, I placed the pajamas on the bed before undressing and heading for the shower.
Entering the shower, I surrendered myself to the warm water, its drops healing my skin while its steam enveloped my naked body and veiled the glass walls.
A smile tugged at my lips as I realized the clever privacy afforded by the misty condensation.
Wrapping my body in a towel, I walked on tiptoes as the cold floor sent shivers down my spine. I dressed in the pajamas and nestled into bed, the day's events settling quietly as I closed my eyes.
Despite being confined, taken, and bound by a man I hardly knew, I found an unexpected sense of tranquility.
It was the first time in my life that I didn't have to wake up the next day and endure the unwelcome advances of lecherous men at the bar or the attention-seeking antics of colleagues desperate for the affection of men who showed no interest in them.
In that moment, I simply breathed, knowing that somehow things couldn't possibly get worse than they already were. And so, I drifted into a peaceful sleep, just like that.
***
In the murky haze between dreams and reality, a jolt of cold metal against my temple shattered the fragile peace of sleep.
Blinking away the fog, I found myself face to face with a blonde, her features etched with fury, strands of blonde hair framing her fierce gaze.
With lips drawn tight and a glint of steel in her hand, she loomed over me, a threatening presence in the dim light.
Instinctively, I raised my arms in a futile attempt to shield myself, the weight of the moment pressing down on me as I sat upright in bed, the covers tangled around my legs.
"Who are you?" she hissed; her voice sharp.
"Did you sleep with my man?"
Caught off guard, I tried to diffuse the tension.
"Who?" I stammered, feeling the cold metal pressing against my skin. "Whoa! Take it easy!"
"I'm not calming down," she spat, intensifying the pressure.
"Answer me!"
"My name is Belle. I am his fiancée," I explained cautiously, pondering how to disarm the situation.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She forcefully slapped my palms down.
"I'm his fiancée."
Arching an eyebrow, she moved closer, licking her lips before threatening, "We'll see if you're still his 'fiancée' after this."
She pulled the trigger, but the gun malfunctioned.
'Oh, for heaven's sake!' I muttered to myself.
Frustrated, she banged the malfunctioning gun against the nightstand, screaming, "Why won't this damn thing work?"
"You're insane," I asserted as I stood up, prepared to leave. "I'm getting out of here."
"No, you're not going anywhere," she insisted.
"You owe me an explanation."
In a moment of adrenaline, I slapped her, my patience exhausted.
"You need help."
Her anger dissolved into tears.
"Apollo is mine. He always will be," she sobbed.
"I wasn't aware he was something to be owned."
As I turned to leave, I saw Apollo standing in the doorway, his body leaning on the door frame.
"How long have you been there?" I asked.
"I just got here," he said amused with a smirk on his face.
I spun around, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. To my horror, while I was asleep, she had ruthlessly sliced through all my possessions.
Feathers from disemboweled pillows adorned the floor, silk sheets lay torn, and my once-intact suitcase now lay in two distinct halves.
Apollo approached; his touch gentle on my shoulder as he moved past. His attention shifted to a blonde woman charging toward him, joyfully leaping into his arms.
As she enveloped him, I instinctively took a step back.
Catching sight of my withdrawal, Apollo swiftly pushed himself from her arms, questioning, "Sabrina, how did you even get in here?"
"Service," she replied with a smug grin.
"Now tell her to leave, so we can be alone."
"No, Sabrina. It's you who needs to leave," he stated, taking my hand, and kissing it softly.
"This is Belle, my fiancée."
Her face twisted with disbelief.
"You can't be serious."
"She looks like a stripper, like you picked her up off the street for a dollar."
She said approaching me, sniffing disdainfully.
"She even smells like one."
I inhaled deeply, standing my ground.
"You barge in here uninvited, threaten my life with a gun, and dare to call me cheap?"
My patience was wearing thin, and my heart raced with indignation.
"You're pathetic, pining over a man who doesn't want you," I said.
I looked her up and down, "The only decent thing about you is that skirt, and even that's last year's fashion."
Fuming, she threatened, "I'll make you regret this."
As she raised her hand to strike, Apollo intervened swiftly. He grabbed her arm, pulling her in close, his hand around her throat as she struggled to breathe.
"Lay a hand on her again, and I'll be the one to make you regret it," he warned, his voice cold.
She nodded, bowing her head in acknowledgment.
As he let her go, she took a cautious step back, her eyes locking onto his with a mix of terror and unease.
With a swift turn, she fled, her earlier desire now replaced by a palpable sense of fear. The echo of her heels reverberated through the hallway and down the stairs as she made her escape.
Apollo closed the distance between us, his hand cupping my face tenderly, his gaze locking onto mine.
"Are you alright?" he inquired.
"I'm fine," I replied, perching on the edge of the bed.
My voice faltered as I added, "If that bullet had hit me..."
A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment as I fixed my gaze on a point near the window, lost in thought.
After a brief hesitation, he settled beside me, the gun Sabrina had wielded now in his grasp. He laid it carefully on the bed, a humorless chuckle escaping him.
"The safety was on. You were lucky."
"Are you kidding me? She nearly took my life!" I exclaimed in disbelief.
"But she didn't," he responded, his voice devoid of warmth.
He shrugged off his blazer and methodically unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest that resembled a canvas of scars and black ink tattoos.
Together, it formed a tapestry—a silent testimony of his tormented past. There were burn marks, clumsy stitches, clean cuts, and deep gashes. This man had endured unimaginable pain, which perhaps explained his detached charm.
"Don't stare. I'm not a pretty sight," he growled, his voice rough like a wounded animal.
"Apollo," I whispered, stepping closer. My fingers hesitantly traced the contours of his scars.
"You're wrong."
His eyes softened momentarily.
"You're too kind," he murmured, taking a step back.
"What happened to you?" I asked, my voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"Not your damn business," he retorted, striding towards the bathroom.
Despite the open bedroom door offering an escape, I remained, settling myself on the bed, waiting.
Walking back towards the bed, his skin glistened with fresh droplets in the sunlight.
Raising an eyebrow, he stated firmly, "I don't share my past with anyone."
It seemed as if the shower was a way to cool down, to prevent himself from lashing out.
"That's okay," I responded, then reclined on the bed.
"We all have demons, Apollo, some darker than others."
He lay beside me, maintaining a careful distance, his eyes shut.
"Can you be quiet for an hour or two? I need a power nap."
"I can be quiet," I assured him.
Almost instantly, his snoring filled the room.
The temptation to disturb him was strong, but I remembered the adage about not provoking a sleeping beast.
Rising from the bed, I accidentally stubbed my toe against the nightstand. Suppressing a scream, I then clumsily knocked over the lamp, which fortunately didn't break.
Sitting in the middle of the room, nursing my toe with a tear in my eye, I felt a mix of pain and frustration.
He cracked open an eye, checking the commotion.
"If this is some voodoo shit you're trying, it's not working. I'm still alive," he remarked dryly.
"I don't dabble in black magic," I replied, placing my foot back down and returning to the bed.
"You know, for a big, bad, scary guy, you're surprisingly peaceful when you sleep."
"And for someone kidnapped by a mafia boss, you're quite talkative," he retorted.
"You're not as frightening as you think, and I was not kidnapped I came willingly," I whispered.
"Zip it," he growled, turning away from me.
The scar on his back caught my attention - deep, menacing. Compelled by an inexplicable urge, I traced it softly with my index finger.
"Belle," he warned, "stop."
Yet, he didn't physically stop me. I traced the scar again, and this time he shivered, turning swiftly to seize my hand.
"I said stop." His voice was a mix of command and vulnerability.
"What happened to you?" I dared to ask.
"Not your concern," he snapped, rising abruptly.
"We have a wedding at noon. Dress nicely."
"At noon?" I queried, perplexed.
"Typical for arranged marriages," he replied curtly.
"Will your family be there?" I asked.
"Just us and a priest," he replied, his tone flat.
"Okay," I conceded. "I'll find something appropriate to wear."
He left the room swiftly, granting me a moment of peace with my thoughts. Though the clock displayed only six in the morning, the night had stretched into what felt like an eternity.
Upon entering the bathroom, I noticed my makeup bag miraculously untouched despite the chaos Sabrina had incited.
Determined to conceal any signs of weariness, I intended to face the ceremony with unwavering strength.
The mirror reflected a face that bore witness to a tough night, but I had to cover all the traces of my sorrow, whether I liked it or not.