But if I text her now, no matter what I say, she'll know something is wrong.
My phone bounces on the floor, all but useless right now. I drag the surprisingly soft blanket up to climb underneath it, wrapping it so tightly I don't have to see the reality unfolding around me. No more tears escape, having left all of them on the bathroom floor already, but I stare into nothing in the cocoon around me, willing myself to sleep.
Whether it's two minutes or six hours, I'm not sure, but eventually, sleep takes me, dragging me into a nightmare that's no worse than my reality. A dream full of haunting red eyes,blood dripping from his teeth, and somehow he's not the worst monster there. Running after us is my grandfather, crazed and wild, screaming about the abomination I've become, how it's not too late; I can still fulfill my purpose and avoid burning.
The monster beside me in my nightmare doesn't terrify me nearly as much as the prospect of what my family might do to me if they catch me now. What manner of cleansing rituals they'll need to perform since I've been with demons. The things they did to me when they found out I was no longer pure still haunt me, and I'm sure that was little more than child's play now that I know what kind of cult they've devoted themselves to.
When I finally wake, heart pounding, I know he's been here. I search the room for proof to either confirm or assuage my sureness. And there it is. My phone's been plugged in, and a familiar bag is lying beside it.My laptop.Next to that, there's a takeout container.
The gesture of picking up my computer and my favorite breakfast and coffee shop should mean something, but all it does is piss me off more. Eamon can come and go as he pleases, literally hundreds of miles away without a second thought, and I'm stuck here completely alone.
A sick combination of stubbornness and sorrow keeps me from touching the coffee or the food. I can't take it, can't let this kindness soften me to the fact that this asshole literally kidnapped me. I'm not about to get Stockholm syndrome over a fucking latte.
I'mnot.
But I'm also not stupid enough to let good coffee go to waste.
Bite Me
Eamon
I've never seen anything like this.
Four days.
For four days, she's eaten nothing.
She has to be miserable. I can hear her stomach growling from here.
Since we arrived, the entirety of her diet has been coffee and liquor.
She should be passed out on the floor, but through the door to her room, I listen in as she works like nothing is wrong. She's had conference calls, sent and received emails, andeven had one video call where she laughed and joked, set a timeline and expectations, and made plans to touch base at the same time next week, scribbling it into her calendar.
She has refused to make me a list of groceries, so I've been forced to run back and forth to get takeout, just for her to not eat that either.
And just like every day since we got here, the second her work day is done, she eases the computer closed, drags herself to the fridge to grab a drink, and disappears behind her door again.
Only today, she's going to be very disappointed.
The fridge slams closed, the first sign of genuine emotion she's shown in days. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?" I run my palm down my face as if I can wipe the smile away.
Her furious steps grow louder, the muffled sound of socks on concrete bringing her closer until she's standing between me and the game in her pajamas, draped in a robe made of the same shiny material. One hand on her hip, she gestures at the kitchen. "You know what. Where is it?"
"It's gone." I lean to the side until I can see the TV behind her. "Can you move? I'm trying to watch this."
A harsh breath leaves her nose, and I can feel her eyes trying to burn holes in my fucking forehead. "Gone."
"Yes."
A deep inhalation later, her steps resume, storming back into her room and shutting the door roughly behind her.
I'm tempted to chase after her, but it would be fruitless.
I don't give a flying fuck if she wants to drown her sorrows every night, that's her business. I'm tempted to do the same and give in most days anyway. But she won't eat, and that's a problem. I was ready to bargain with her, eat a meal, and she can have a cocktail. Eat a meal and have a bottle of water, two cocktails.
Instead, she's wasting away to nothing, hiding behind the designer bedding we brought from her apartment. Outside of her work hours, she's little more than a corpse, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. She doesn't even waste her time wishing I was dead anymore. At least when she did that, I could hear her thoughts as if she was projecting them directly into my skull.
