~~Elena~~
He takes his time to turn around while my hand instinctively falls on the doorknob, but with all the nervousness and fear crawling inside me, I drop my keys. They hit the floor with a loud clink that echoes through the apartment.
I quickly bend to pick them up, but when I straighten, he's standing right in front of me. I didn't even hear him move.
He plays with a small knife between his fingers, flipping it lazily like it's nothing more than a coin. The silver catches the light and my throat goes dry.
His hair falls carelessly over his forehead, slightly damp like he had been caught in the rain too. Unlike last time when he wore official clothing, today he's dressed casually.
All black. He's in a black leather jacket, black tees and ripped black jeans.
"What did I tell you about my own personal session at five?"
His eyes lift from the knife to mine and I swear my lungs forget how to work.
My hand tightens around the keys. I try to breathe normally. Try to look unbothered. Try to keep that strong girl façade in place. But I can feel myself shaking.
When I don't answer, he raises the knife.
The cold tip presses against the side of my neck and my entire body freezes.
"I told you," I whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds, "I don't give therapy sessions to adults."
He doesn't even look at me.
His attention is on the knife as he drags it slowly down the side of my neck to the base of it. Not hard enough to cut but enough for me to feel how sharp it is.
My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. I have the sudden urge to slide down and sit on the floor.
After a few seconds, he pulls the knife away and subconscious sigh of relief leaves my lips and my head falls back against the door. My legs feel weak.
"See..," he begins casually, scratching the end of his nose. "I don't like it when people don't do as I say. It mostly doesn't end well."
His eyes drop to my hand that is clutching onto my keys.
I'm gripping them so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
"Give me those."
I can't bring myself to do as he says and neither do I have the energy. What's going to happen once I hand them to him!
He arches a brow. Clearly not amused with my small act of defiance.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
My hand feels heavy, but slowly, I lift it and place the keys in his palm.
The same palm holding a knife.
He closes his fingers around them and slips them into his pocket.
A lot of things are wrong with this man and if I was to give my own opinion, I would say that he needed to be in a psychiatric hospital.
He finally moves away from me and the sudden absence of his closeness almost makes my knees buckle. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he folds the knife and slides it back into the pocket of his leather jacket.
"How about we start." He makes his way toward the couch and sinks into it.
I am still leaning against the door, my back pressed so tightly against it that it almost hurts. The worst part is that I had locked it myself. And now he has the keys in his pocket. For a second, the thought of screaming crosses my mind. If I scream, maybe someone will hear. Maybe someone will come.
But then again, I cant be sure if I'll be alive to see the light of another day if I tried.
"I told you, I don't give therapy to adults." I hear myself repeat the words again and again and I am starting to sound like a broken violin, playing the same note over and over. And no matter how many times I say it, I mean it. There is no way in this world I am taking this psycho as my patient.
He laughs at my words. He actually laughs. It is real laughter, deep and unbothered, like I have just told him the funniest joke. Then it disappears just as quickly and his face turns blank. His doe eyes lock onto mine and the warmth from his laugh vanishes, replaced by something empty and unsettling.
"I'm not looking for a therapist, Elena," he says calmly. "I just want to share my adventurous life with you where your opinion needs to please my ears because if it doesn't…"
He trails off and slips his hand into his pocket again. My heart stops for a second when he pulls out the pocket knife and flips it between his fingers, the metal catching the light as if to finish the sentence for him.
"I might snap," he adds, stressing the last word in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I am not even a religious person, but with no one else to blame, I find myself asking silently, God, why.
When I finally push myself off the door, the cold from my wet clothes sinks deeper into my skin and I shiver. I glance down at myself and my breath catches in embarrassment. My blouse is soaked from the rain and clinging to me. The outline of my black bra is clearly visible, the top of my breasts exposed in a way I never intended.
Heat rushes to my face despite the fear crawling through me. I just want to disappear.
"Oh," he says casually, his gaze lowering without shame, "you also need to change into something less revealing otherwise I might think you're trying to seduce me."
For a moment I cannot even find words. The nerve of him. The audacity. I wrap my arms around myself instinctively and quickly begin walking toward my room, needing to get away from his eyes more than anything.
"Elena."
His voice stops me before I reach the hallway.
I turn slowly to look at his face. He is attractive. I know that. Anyone would say so. But I cannot see anything beyond the threat he carries, beyond the way he invaded my space and turned my own home into something unsafe.
"Leave your bag there."
Of course he would say that. My phone and laptop are inside it. He cannot risk me calling the police. I pause for a second, considering refusing, but the knife is still in his hand and I am not brave enough to challenge him again.
Without a word, I walk to the kitchen counter and place my bag on it. I feel his eyes on me the entire time.
Then I turn and disappear into my room, closing the door behind me.