Shoes clicking on the marble floor, rat-a-tapping as briskly as an isolated walk could, Mr. Cruise strutted by me at the gala. His blue eyes sparkling with the intent to strangle those of "less fortunate mental upbringing” as himself, he ensured the stark difference in class between him and others. His decadence and polished speech further alienating him from the usual crowd reminded me of his dastardly ways. With his mother in an asylum, and father cold as the ground where his body lay, Mr. Daniel Cruise had inherited vast sums of money—blood money, suspicious and wretched as other gentry proclaimed—was worth more than the “value of the Great Chan himself." His Nobel prize in the physics behind quarks, his mathematics degrees from Harvard and Princeton, and his pompous attitude repulsed and struck fear into the hearts of other greats in society.
Yet I was the poor fool who felt sympathy for the odd and haughty man. He truly was handsome, from his thick golden haystack hair to his defined jaw and overwhelming physique, and not at all old, though stodgy, as suggested. He was a man whose smile was a rare occurrence, never aimed at me. I was nothing but the Governor’s daughter, a political science major with a penchant for journalism and high-end fashion. And the left-over garbage of this Mr. Cruise.
In pitch-black and in deathly silence, his hand gently traced the small of my back, slipping behind the deep red dress I wore, his hot breath down my neck. The grumbling of his voice a distant echo compared to my racing heartbeat, I was lost in the intrigue, the mystery and exploratory piercing of his deep-set eyes. His other hand placed firmly over my mouth, as though to silence my protesting. Though I had dreamt of this for years, I found myself awakening. I at once had an inkling something was amiss, his demeanor too cool, with no traces of a lover’s sweat across his brow. He was playing me!
I instantly broke away, amazed at his bow-tie, still perfectly in place. His grip slackened. The lights clicked on and sure enough, he had a camera, nearly invisible in the corner. Hysterical, I stuck out a pale, quivering hand to his collar and felt the minuscule microphone hemmed inside. Motionless, his eyes became dark again, almost purple, hinting of a deep forbidding, but muttered nothing. Just silence, staring and stabbing. I darted to the door, a tear streaking down my cheek, whimpering something as he remained frozen, hand mid-air where it once rested on my mouth. He dared to stop me before the double-doors, his hand still poised, only bracing for a slap.
“What is the meaning of this!” the statue broke, as though unfreezing from a still-frame.
“If you wanted a common whore, I suggest you go to 17th and Washburn.”
“Dearest,” he said in a frantic voice, though his exterior remained calm, “You are implying the insane. If you are referencing the cameras, that was for my own observance later, to analyze and…”
“How could you believe I would let you make a spectacle of me. I may be of lesser status than you, but you have no right, none, to think you can play off this ruse as being an ‘analysis.’ I wasn’t born yesterday and this is not a scientific study, Mr. Cruise. My political career has already been tarnished with your games and interference and you need to understand…”
He snatched my hair and drew me into an unwarranted, undesired kiss. I attempted to fight, bit his lips, pulled and jerked in a frenzy, but the passion he finally was exhibiting actually pulled my heartstrings with my hair. So I gave in. For a moment.
He let go, and I bolted, running as fast as I could down the padded red carpeted hall, careened into the marble balustrade of the massive staircase, and kept on through the mansion, only stopping when slamming and bolting my own door, and collapsing in a weeping ball on my floor mat.
I woke up with a large “W” from “Welcome” indented on my face, a purple knee cap, and swollen eyes.