Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Idon’twanttocry.ItangersmethatIamcrying.Hehitsmeagain.

           “Five.”Myvoiceismoreachoked,strangledsob,andinthismomentIthinkIhatehim.Onemore,Icandoonemore.Mybacksidefeelsasifit’sonfire.

           “Six,”Iwhisperastheblisteringpaincutsacrossmeagain,andIhearhimdropthebeltbehindme,andhe’spullingmeintohisarms,allbreathlessandcompassionate…andIwantnoneofhim.

           “Letgo…no…”AndIfindmyselfstrugglingoutofhisgrasp,pushinghimaway.Fightinghim.

           “Don’ttouchme!”Ihiss.Istraightenandstareathim,andhe’swatchingmeasifImightbolt,eyeswide,bemused.Idashthetearsangrilyoutofmyeyeswiththebacksofmyhands,glaringathim.

           “Thisiswhatyoureallylike?Me,likethis?”Iusethesleeveofthebathrobetowipemynose.

           Hegazesatmewarily.

           “Well,youareonefucked-upsonofabitch.”

           “Ana,”hepleads,shocked.

           “Don’tyoudare‘Ana’me!Youneedtosortyourshitout,Grey!”Andwiththat,Iturnstiffly,andIwalkoutoftheplayroom,closingthedoorquietlybehindme.

           Iclaspthedoorhandlebehindmeandbrieflyleanbackagainstthedoor.Wheretogo?DoIrun?DoIstay?Iamsomad,scaldingtearsspilldownmycheeks,andIbrushthemfuriouslyaside.Ijustwanttocurlup.Curlupandrecuperateinsomeway.Healmyshatteredfaith.HowcouldIhavebeensostupid?Ofcourseithurts.

           Tentatively,Irubmybackside.Aah!It’ssore.Wheretogo?Nothisroom.Myroom,ortheroomthatwillbemine,no,ismine…wasmine.Thisiswhyhewantedmetokeepit.