“Hey, don’t wreck that.” My voice comes out raw, cracking on the last word.
She yowls as I stalk over and gently take the bear, my fingers trembling against matted fur that's worn smoothly where I hold him every night. Sometimes I can still smell Mom’s vanilla body lotion on it. Or maybe that's just me being pathetic.
Mouse gets louder, demanding.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” After carefully placing the bear on the coffee table, along with my phone and earbuds, I scoop the cat up. Her warmth against my chest helps somehow. “Let's get you fed, little monster.”
Everything's lined up on the kitchen counter. Novotny left four pages of instructions. Four. Including threats about what he'd do if anything happened to his cat, complete with stick figure illustrations.
Coach Harper physically dragged my teammate out by the neck when he saw that part. Never seen Novotny shut up so fast. His face went all red. Swear he even moaned.
After putting Mouse down on the floor, I grab the food bowls from the mat near the refrigerator, then open a small can and put the wet stuff into one. A small cup of dry food goes into the other. Mouse winds around my legs as I walk back to the mat and place the bowls down.
While she eats, I make a protein shake. Vanilla powder, banana, almond milk. Nothing fancy, just a simple breakfast. I snack on a second banana as the blender mixes the ingredients. When it’s done, I pour the thick shakeinto a glass and down half of it, the cold helping settle my stomach.
I’m stalling. The next part of this morning routine is the worst.
My skin’s already crawling, heart beating faster. Four years and it's still a challenge. Even here. Alone. I count backwards from ten, then again, then once more.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Ground yourself, Ryan. You are safe. No one else is here.
I repeat what my therapist taught me as I leave my glass on the counter and walk to the bathroom, stopping quickly to toe off my shoes next to the couch. I stand in the entryway and scan the room, then check behind the door, then peek in the small closet. Twice. Then once more to be sure.
Nothing there.
I strip out of my clothes, keeping my back toward the mirror. Refuse to look at the roadmap of scars covering my left leg. Thick ropes and shiny patches where they had to graft skin. Narrow puckering around my knee and calf. The tattoo I blew a lot of my savings on in senior year in high school, trying to hide what the metal and glass did.
It didn’t work. Just makes it less obvious from far away.
Nobody wants someone who looks like a jigsaw puzzle of skin. Not the girls I started to notice in middle school. Not the guys I crushed on later. And after the grouphome—
My eyes burn as I reach for the handle and turn on the water. After that incident, I can't stand anyone touching me, no matter how much I might want it.
I step one foot into the walk-in shower when a door slamming shut echoes from somewhere in the apartment.
Every muscle locks up, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.
Someone's here. Someone's in the apartment.
I grab my joggers, hands shaking so badly I barely get them on. The bathroom is a trap. No windows. No way out. Nothing to defend myself with. And my phone is outside on the coffee table.
Shit.
Can’t even call 911.
I ease the door open and peer into the hallway. Twelve steps to the front door, seven if I run. I inch forward, my bare feet silent on hardwood. When the living room comes into view, my knees almost buckle.
Walsh?
My hockey captain turns his head, hazel eyes finding mine right away. “Henneman.”
I can't move. Can't breathe. Every muscle in my body coils up, ready to run, but there's nowhere to go. He's between me and the front door.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“You're going to help me.” His eyes scan over my body, cold and calculating, before he pulls out a gun. “Put on a shirt. And shoes.”
Bile creeps up my throat as I remain glued to the spot, focused on the black metal and his finger near the trigger.
