A double drabble based on David Copperfield. Written at Wickfield's request for the Dickensblog Pledge Drive.
Disclaimer: I own neither of these characters.
She feels them as she descends the stairs: Uriah's eyes, fixed upon her from his vantage point below. The evening meal has been a nightmare to her since he first insisted—in his deferential manner—on this little ritual. Every night, just like this, she swallows bile and avoids those eyes as she reaches the bottom of the steps, afraid to see again that ugly fire flickering in their reddish depths. Every night, just like this, her very flesh shrinks as she places icy fingertips on his arm and feels his small writhe of satisfaction.
They cross the hall and enter the dining room, just as they always do, figures in some ghastly dance that will never end. Having ostentatiously settled her in her chair, he bows low before he withdraws to his own, his clammy fingers brushing her wrist with studied inadvertence. She jerks her hand back, flushing scarlet, knowing every detail of the leer on his face without looking up to see it.
He is only trying to be friendly, she tells herself, yet again. It is imagination. Nothing more.
But as she bows her head, carefully arranging her napkin on her lap, she can feel his eyes.