Fleur sat across from Ambrose, eating slowly. Her eyes were still red and puffy, her nose pink from crying. Each breath was laboured, a sign of the emotional toll her excessive weeping had taken. Ambrose watched her in silence, trying to start a conversation.
"So, what are you planning to do now that you've graduated?" he asked, hoping to break the ice. Fleur ignored him completely, continuing to eat in silence.
"How about joining the company?" he offered, but she remained unresponsive.
He tried again. "What happened to that friend of yours? What is she planning on doing?"
Fleur's reaction was immediate but not what he had hoped for. Her gaze hardened into a glare, and her teeth clenched.
"Don't you ever talk about her!" she hissed, catching both Mary and Ambrose off guard. Fleur, who had always been the one to talk incessantly about her friend, now seemed to bristle at the mere mention of her.
Ambrose attempted a joke to lighten the mood. "Hah! Finally, we don't have to hear about her greatness again."
(SLAM!) Fleur's hand struck the table with force, her hateful gaze deepening. "I said don't talk about her!" she repeated, her voice a dangerous whisper.
Mary, alarmed by the sudden change in Fleur's demeanor, leaned in and touched her arm gently. "What are you talking about, Fleur? Did something happen between you two?" Her concern was palpable.
Fleur turned her head, her bottom lip quivering as tears began to roll down her face. She started to cry uncontrollably. The spoon in Ambrose's hand fell from his grasp, and he clenched his fist, his gaze narrowing in concern and anger. "What did she do to my sister?" he thought chillingly to himself,
.....
I fell asleep almost immediately after I settled into my seat. The slumber was warm and comforting until a creeping discomfort yanked me from my dreams. My eyes snapped open in sheer panic.
A wave of revulsion surged through me when I saw the man beside me, his hand grotesquely moving up my inner thighs. Time seemed to freeze as a cold sweat broke out on my skin. I was momentarily paralyzed, shock and disgust clamping down on me like iron chains.
"You asshole!" I screamed, my voice raw with terror and fury. The man jolted, his eyes widening in surprise, but his hand continued its vile advance. Without hesitation, I lashed out, my fist connecting with his nose with a sickening crunch. He shrieked in pain, clutching his face, but I could feel the searing anger burning through me.
"Help me! There's a creep beside me!" I bellowed, my voice breaking with a mixture of fear and rage. The bus hostess rushed to the back, her face contorting in horror as she saw the man beside me, blood streaming from his nose. I could barely focus on the scene; my hands shook, and my breaths came in ragged gasps. The only real comfort I had was the adrenaline coursing through my veins, giving me the strength to fight back.
Passengers turned to stare, their eyes filled with a mix of shock and judgment. "This slut is lying! Why would I touch her?" the man howled in a desperate, flustered defense. The hostess's eyes hardened as she faced him. "But she never said you touched her," she said with a cold finality. His bluster turned into a tantrum as he was ejected from the bus, screaming obscenities and blaming everyone but himself.
I felt weak, my legs trembling uncontrollably. The horror of the situation still clung to me like a second skin. My stomach churned with nausea as I overheard whispers from the front seats. "Did you see how she was dressed? No wonder it happened," two passengers murmured, their voices dripping with disdain. It was as if they were trying to justify the assault, their words stabbing at my already battered self-esteem.
I swallowed hard, fighting back the bile rising in my throat. The shame and disgust were almost unbearable. When the bus finally came to a stop, I stumbled out of my seat, my movements robotic and frantic. I bolted down the aisle, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the bus. I practically flew to the terminal washroom, tearing open my bag and grabbing every wipe I had. I scrubbed furiously at my skin, trying to erase the filth and the violation. Each swipe of the wipe was a futile attempt to cleanse not just my body but my very sense of self.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally regained some semblance of composure and decided to head to the meeting. My phone buzzed incessantly with texts from my dad, urging me to come home quickly. The realization hit me like a cold splash of water—I was already past three o'clock, late as ever. Given what I had just endured, I hoped they would understand and forgive my tardiness.
I booked a taxi, more vigilant this time, keeping my gaze fixed on the changing scenes outside the window. Tears blurred my vision, making the passing scenery a distorted smear of colors. My breaths came in ragged bursts as I tried to steady myself, my chest heaving with the remnants of suppressed sobs.
Anger bubbled beneath the surface, mingling with the deep sadness that had gripped me. I wanted to cry, to have someone there with me, but I was alone. I was alone because of who I had become—someone who had learned to use others and then discard them, a pattern that had been ingrained in me since childhood. I had never truly thought it was wrong; it was just the way life had taught me to be. People would use me and then toss me aside, so I had adopted the same approach.
In my misguided attempt to protect myself, I had pushed people away, convincing myself that I could live independently, solely relying on my own strength. But now, as I sat in the back of the taxi, I realized how wrong I had been. I was weak and vulnerable, needing someone by my side more than I ever cared to admit. I had neglected to build real connections, to keep people close. My self-reliance had only left me isolated, and I felt the crushing weight of that loneliness pressing down on me.