The Regret

Silence. Nothing but a strained glare between them. The older man, dark skin, thick, soft hands with no sign of callouses and welcoming eyes, glazed over in resignation. His hands gripping the edge of his table, his knuckles ashen. Opposite him, an equally dark skinned woman: her eyes brown, cold, and full of apathy. Much younger and too young for her eyes to be painted in such grey. 
“She’s lost him too, Amy,” the older man said finally, “Merlin as well.”
“I don’t care, Frendsen,” Amy replied. 
“What do you mean you don’t care, Amy?”
“I don’t care,” Amy said this time with more venom, “about Andra or Merlin."
A moment. "Or Josh," she spat.
The last name hit Frendsen like a bullet.
“Jesus,” Frendsen’s grip on the desk tightened.
“Would you listen to yourself for a moment here, Amy, what the fuck are you saying? Of course you care about them!”
Amy’s eyes rolled, the apathetic paint finally cracking. 
“What do you want me to say, sir,” she replied quietly, “I’m not interested in lying anymore.”
Frendsen raised an eyebrow, “you never cared about Josh? Nonsense!”
“Maybe, maybe not, I’m reevaluating everything. Almost dying gives you a fresh perspective.” 
“Josh is dead, Amy,” Frendsen replied, “died saving you. He cared. Like I care now. This isn’t you, kid.” 
There was no more paint left to crack. 
Amy rose to her feet, the veins in her neck bulged. Frendsen found one on her forehead that looked close to bursting. He barely had time to notice the chair flying across his small office and smashing against the wall. 
“Stand down, Spar-!” the words died in his throat as Amy lunged forward and punched down on his desk, cracking it heavily through the middle. 
“You care! You care!” She screamed at him, her warm spittle sprayed his face.
“You look at me, Frendsen! Look at what you’ve done to me!” 
She took her shirt off. A lump appeared in Frendsen’s throat. Amy’s body was a canvas of overlapping scars. Staples protruded through the skin, suture wounds stitched closed, reopened and closed again screamed soundlessly in red. 
Taking his eyes off of her battered body, he saw tears in Amy’s eyes, seeing them gently streaking down her face before landing in a soft patter on the floor.
“Look at me, Derek!” She bellowed.
Frendsen snapped to attention. 
“This is what you allowed to happen, this-this is your fault. I don’t know how to feel in my own body anymore. You’ve killed me.”
Quiet sobbing filled the space. 
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she said quietly, “why did you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?” 
Amy put her shirt on and left, closing the door behind her carefully. 
Silence once again found its place in the office. Frendsen reclined in his chair, his heart pounding. He felt light-headed. 
He pulled open the drawer on his now damaged table. It slammed with a satisfying thump. A glass bottle of Jameson was there to greet him. He picked it up and put it in front of him. 
Frendsen looked around him for his tumbler. Sighing, he undid the bottle and drank deeply from it. The warm whiskey burning his throat soothingly. 
Now slumped in his chair, he found his eyes drawn to the dossier on the table.
URGENT: FOR CLASSIFIED EYES ONLY:
ANDRA-D054, DELTA COMPANY, CLASS III.
He reached for it and crumpled it, discarding it to the floor.
“No more,” he whispered to the bottle.
Category:The Weekly
Category:The Weekly Winners