Vulnerability.

Completely shaken, she struggled to walk as she desperately limped away from the door, supporting her frail body with her calloused hand pressed hard against the wall, grasping at the old, peeling, and splintered weatherboards. She cried in utter pain as she groped for the wooden table ahead of her. Failing to stable herself on it, she collapsed in a rumpled heap. And then the door screeched open, smacking into the wall beside the door frame.

Outside, a ferocious downpour battered on the roof of the small room, accompanied by several loud claps of thunder, almost bursting her eardrums. She clasped her hands tightly over her ears; she almost began hyperventilating. Her head throbbed with pain. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her face frozen in a complete state of agony. She whimpered, squeezing her fragile body into a tight ball, as she heard the sloshing of footsteps nearing her.

The foreboding footsteps stopped right in front of her, and she curled herself up even tighter, fear shaking every bone in her body. The figure knelt beside her, leaning over the fragile body. Warm, soft hands were placed gently over her clammy, wet hands. Fingers delicately intertwined through her bony, white hands and into her disheveled hair. She flinched, and yelped as she buried her face further into her knees, forcing red marks into her temples. The hands applied no pressure to her head; instead, carefully unclasped her hands from her ears. As they did so, the girl cried, pulling away her hands from the strangers'. Their hands were ever so gentle on hers, but still firm, not letting her go. The stranger continued to pull her hands away, until they were enveloped in the strangers' hands in front of her. Her eyes remained squeezed shut, but she lifted her head slightly, ceasing to struggle to regain control of her shaky hands. For soon, her hands no longer were cold; the warmth of the strangers' hands replaced the damp air.

She tensed up again, although no longer shaking, as the stranger removed his grip of her hand, and cupped her cheek instead. She tried to pull away, but the warmth of his hand against her cheek was irresistable, and she pressed her face into his hand. The stranger chuckled, brushing a careful thumb over her quivering lips. The girl shortened her breaths in panic; but relaxed again as another hand was placed behind her neck, under the dripping tangles of her hair.

Slowly, gently, her head was lifted up. The girl would not fight it, but her eyes remained shut tightly, her eyebrows furrowed, crinkling the bridge of her nose.

"Hush, everything is okay now. You're safe. I'm here," a beautiful voice breathed into her ear. She could not recognise the voice, but the serenity of his voice dared here to squint open her eyes. She could only make out a black silhouette, surrounded by rundown walls and a furious blue-black looming behind the door frame. She closed her eyes again, whimpering and afraid.

"Shh, it's okay. Try again." He urged her to continue. She shook slightly, but opened her eyes again. This time she was able to make out the features of the stranger's face. The corner of his lips turned up slightly into a shy smile; a raindrop threatened to drip off at the end of his nose. His eyes were slightly covered by matted, dripping wet hair, pointing in all directions. A soft brown gazed into her teary, dark chocolate eyes.

She blinked twice, and finally recognised who it was. Impulsively, she immediately threw herself at him, burying her face in his chest, sobbing fiercely as she clenched her hands tightly into his shirt, squeezing him closer to her shaking body.

"Hush," he murmured simply, as he wrapped his arms around her, and rested his head on hers. He moved closer to her, maneuvering her body so to cradle her in his arms. She did not let go of him as he lifted her, for she knew she was now safe, and complete.

---

SO random. But I pictured it all in my head... and I realise that it really does look better in my head. Ohwell. I hope you enjoyed!

---

How can we complain that someone knows too much about us when all we talk about is ourselves? My friend said that I knew too much about him, and that he knew nothing about me. Ha. doesn't really matter; he always forgets what people tell him anyway, so there's not really any point to it.

---

I have three questions: why did he write it; why at the end of the year; and is it true? And that is all.

LOL, Sarah.