A heavy hand touches her face; her eyes open sharply at his cold touch. The heavy hand pulls her up by her hair, ignoring her writhing and screaming. Without even a glance at her face, twisted in agony, he drags her to the first door.
“Apologise,” he demands. She shakes her head; he tugs on her hair, forcing her to stop. “Apologise,” he commands, more forcefully. Again, she shakes her head, though more limited by his grip this time. He rips out a chunk of hair, ignoring her shriek. “Apologise,” he orders.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, hoping to satisfy him. He is not.
Putting his mouth to her ear, he whispers, “Blame yourself.”
She nods slowly.
His heavy hand dismisses her through the first door, letting her walk herself to her own sadness.
He drops to his knees as the door closes and cries to himself, covering his face with a heavy hand. He just kneels and sobs, alone. No one can dry his tears. No one can know his pain, though not physical it still rips him apart. He knows what he has done. But he can’t stop his heavy hand.
His eyes drift over the wall where he beat her, seeing the red stain where he hit too hard. He looks around at all the other red stains he has made on the crumbling walls that serve as both their prisons. Anger boils inside him at his own uncontrollable aggression, but he suppresses it, this once.
He enters the first door.
The heavy hand closes it behind him.