Note from the author: This is my first fanfic and I apologize for any grammar mistakes. I am Brazilian and my English might not be the best yet. I do accept open-heartedly your opinions and reviews.
Yet another day has gone through and little of it makes it into my conscience. I vaguely remember sitting here for the last couple of weeks, hugging myself in such self-pitty scenario I can't shake myself out of, and letting what little is left to my mind wonder what he is doing now. I move to my bathroom - so empty, so un-homely - aware of how pathetic I must look from the outside: my utterly broken, destroyed soul showing off through my equally disgraced body. He wouldn't be pleased, and the mere thought of his anger toward my current shaken health state sends shivers down my spine as I evaluate the image before me in the mirror. I am positive that's me, though I do look like I've been ran over by a dozen wild mammoths.
Deciding I should no longer endure myself in the hard task of looking at the sight in the mirror, I throw my body and mind into an oblivious shower before getting ready for my new week at work. Things are going smoothly - for that, at least, I thank God - with my new boss and co-workers, and my new job has proved to be a rather easy job to perform. Or perhaps it's only that Jack has being so oddly and inconveniently nice to me. I often catch his eyes analyzing me out of a distance, and I let my mind wonder what he sees when he looks at me. I must look awful, at the very least, though I do my best to be presentable at work - is the most professional thing I could do and, as of right now, I have decided to dive my mind and heart into my carreer, willing to go at whatever lengths to make it into my life's purpose once again. Instead of him. Instead of us.
But he never leaves me. The thoughts haunt me throughout the day and even when I put my mind to work, he's there, lurking in the bottom of my mind, waiting to surface. I am often under the impression his eyes are following me wherever I go, and more than once I considered that maybe they are. Not his real, deep, gray, cold eyes, but his guard, the eyes he pays for, the eyes that I had grown to accept in the previous weeks. But there is no way around the truth, and I force myself to face it once more: he's gone. There's no one watching me, no one following me, and his silence and distance have been just enought proof of that. He doesn't care.
I mean, what really did you expect, Anastasia? You left him. You wanted it to be like this. But... somehow, I also hoped he'd put up a better fight, he'd let me feel just a little bit loved before he let me go completely. He didn't, for he did not love me and could never do so. That's just something I'll have to live down to.
My parents and Kate have been worried. Of course I did not went all the way through the reasons of our break up - if I could say so, since we were never together in a real relationship - but all of them know me just as well to sense how broken hearted I am. Mom took a lot of convincing not to fly herself down here when she first heard me sob on the phone, and I secretly felt great that she was willing to do so. God, how I love her. How I wanted to crawl into her arms and cry this pain out. BUt then again, it wouldn't be fair letting her drop Bob, her life, everything she had there to come here and aid me in my time of need. God knows how long it will take before I can heal, even just a bit. So I relieved her mind compromising to fly there this wednesday - Jack had already allowed me to resume my work from there for a couple of days - and stay over the weekend with her and Bob. It's gonna be good. Perhaps that's what I need: some unconditional motherly love, steadfast and long-lasting. She's even trying to convince me to get definitely back home, to rebuild whatever I can of my life in Georgia. The idea does not repel me, as I notice everytime I give some thought to it, but I still fear, deep inside, that if I leave Seattle Christian and I will me done for good.
You are already done for good - my subconscious reminds me bitterly, and though I try to hate her for telling me that, I know she's right. I know she's always been right. What little left of my inner goddess laid spread on the floor, pale and seemingly comatose, and I could never feel less desirable.
Little there is to remember from the past days. I've sinked into liquor as never before - even in the darkest days of my teenage years - and all seemed like a blur from a couple of days. But I could not let it last longer than it did. I am fucking Christian Grey, and I have to pull msyelf together and think. But whenever I seem to lift up my spirit a little bit, the image of her eyes - her deep, breath-taking blue eyes - comes back and I dive into what I could only call hell.
My chest aches, and all my muscles fight the urge to hit something. To hit someone. For many times, I've thought about hitting her. About making her pay, punishing her for making me feel this way and locking her here so she could never walk away from me again. But then I feel like hitting myself - and so I did, several times - because that's exactly what drove her away: my anger. My need for pain. For her pain. But what hurts most now isn't her sore back, or my hurt hand, but my soul - or what little of it I have left. It iss shattered, spread across memories of her - oh, such sweet memories, permeated with her ever so enduring scent. Oh, Anastasia.
My mind did not leave her for one minute since the day she left, and I've gone all the way to hiring new staff to follow her around - unnoticed - and report back to me on every single detail of her life. Does she hurt? Does she miss me? Can she forgive me for being the monster we've always known I was? I am...? I contemplated the idea of forcing her back a couple of times - and even got my teamed prepped up to do so, even against Taylor's best advices - but when I saw her that day - the first day of her second week at work - through the dark windows of my new unrecocnizable car, walking toward the deli to pick up her lunch, everything melted away. She already looked thinner, perhaps seven or eight pounds down, and her eyes popped out of her fair skin, scaring the shit out of me. Soon I saw why, noticing she left the deli with nothing but a coffee and a cinnamon stick. Oh, Anastasia, MY Anastasia, what are you doing? I fought the urge to hurry and feed her, to force her into going back to what she was - her beautiful, healthy self - but I could not move. The sorrow in her eyes, the melancholy in her movements froze me in time, and the reality of how much I had hurt her sank in once more.
What can I do to have her back? I'm willing to spare no costs, no trouble, no pain to get back what's mine, to get my Anastasia back to where she belongs, begging for me, wanting for me. But as I grew to understand in the couple of weeks we've been apart, I also want what she silently and unspokenly promised me: her love. She said she loved me. How could an innocent little thing love me? How could I do that do her? Even the thought of breaking her life as mine is broken scares the living shit out of me. Fuck it, Grey. She's too perfect, too sacred for you to come and break her into some shit like yourself.
My mind had wandered to some other land - where everything is simple, and Anastasia is at my feet, where she was supposed to be in the begining of all this mess, worshipping and adoring me, but not loving me - when Taylor woke me up from my thoughts. I feel the growth of the anger in my chest spread all around my body. What does he want? Can't he leave me be with my fantasies and my fucked up life?
- What is it, Taylor? - I manage to snarl behind my teeth, and he somewhat shrinks at my reaction - good, at least I still impose some fucking respect on my staff - before handing me a brown paper file with Anastasia's 3x4 foto attached to it. I give it a momment of thought before flipping though the pages, eager to know what the fuck had he faced that needed my immediate attention.
As I get it, I freeze. My whole body stiffens behind the copy of what I think to be my last defeat: a flight ticket in the name of Anastasia Steele, for two days from now, to Georgia. She could be visiting her mother, I know, but what takes me and what I know also crossed Taylor's mind is that there isn't another ticket. Only one. One-way trip.
She's going to leave me. The air in my lungs refuse to move, and I realize I haven't breathed for sometime now as Taylor reaches for me, concerned for whatever he sees in my face. I stand back, avoiding him as I wander around my office. What the fuck. She's leaving. She's leaving. My heart shrinks at my chest and I realize I cannot let her slip through my fingers like this. I cannot sink deeper into the self-loathing I've put myself into lately, I have to fight back, to think clearly, to get her back.
I reach out for my Blackberry and suddenly everything comes back into place. I am the fucking most powerful man in this city, and miss Steel is HELL wrong if the thinks she can just flee from me. She'll see what I can do. She'll know better than to run away from me after I'm done.