Hemingway felt like his head was about to burst; his brain felt like it was burning, a rising rage and a sick internal monologue were making him feel like clawing his own skin off. His jaw clenched, and he barely flinched at her first truth. That didn't matter. She could throw whatever she wanted at him; he was guilty of exactly the same, unfortunately.
And then she was up in his face and the rage turned to panic- was she trying to get him to hit her? He was terrified that she would get exactly what she was prodding for, and then... he tried to take a step back from her if she would let him, trying desperately to cling onto the fact that he did not want to hurt her. Not really. And he didn't really mean what he had said either, although he was too fucking stubborn to take it back now, just staring back at her with that horrible anger in his expression still.
The conversation took a sudden twist, and his mind swirled to keep up. "Fucking hell, Abi-" he seethed, genuinely hurt this time. "Are you fucking serious? Jesus Christ, that's how you see me? Really?" he forced out through his tightly tensed jaw. "I told you- I told you I was afraid of hurting you, do you remember? And you- what, that was just a lie, that you trusted me?" he asked.
Had she been scared of him then? Was that why she pretended to trust that he wouldn't? Was that why she had said yes? Was she just pretending to get any pleasure out of it at all, or had he just seen and heard what he wanted to when he had actually been terrified? And what was this about knowing what happens? He suddenly felt physically sick. The room spun violently, and he stumbled back slightly to perch on the arm of the sofa. He looked at the way she was trembling and didn't know if it was what he had done to her, or the memory of someone else.
"I don't know," he said after a moment, his tone a little more steady and honest. "God, I hope so, but I don't know. I think so. I can't blame you for being scared when I'm scared of myself sometimes," he admitted. "Did I hurt you?"