39

ALEXANDER.

Finally, I found the scrubbing brush in the under sink. Her blood had stained the bathroom floor, thick chunks of blood. I grabbed the detergents and started working.

She didn't glance at me once, she stared at the wall and never at me.

She hated me that much. I deserved her hatred anyway.

After washing the floor, rid of the blood, I turned to her.

She didn't pull her shirt. The bathtub had foamed up enough for her to bath in but she didn't pull her shirt.

She grabbed the sponge and washed her legs and arms yet she did not pull her shirt.

‘Her boobs. Maybe she has a hard time looking at them.’ Tyrant came forward, looking at her through my eyes.

“Should I give you some privacy, to bath well?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“There is nothing to see.” She answered quietly, washing herself.

‘I think that I am right.’Tyrant added.

I held the brush stick tightly. It couldn't be.

I had traumatized her greatly. This was all my fault. All of these was my fault. How could