Once.
This makes the wooden chair crack a little.
Twice.
The crack gets bigger.
And, as usual, the third time’s the charm.
The chair finally breaks, the door swings open and his drunken body enters the room, struggling to reach me. Then, he drops to his knees and pats me on the back to help me. That makes the cough go away in an instant. I can see his lips moving. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear. The cough may be gone, but my eyes are burning, and tears are still falling. He embraces me, shortening the distance between us. “Shhh, shhh. It’s gonna be okay. Just breath, Sarah. Focus on breathing.” He starts to hum a song. I don’t know what song it is, but it’s a damn beautiful one. I cover my eyes with my hands, I don’t want to look at him; but more importantly, I don’t want him to see me like this.
“I hate you.” I whisper in anger and shame.
He grabs my hands and moves them away from my face, uncovering my eyes. While looking straight at them, he says, “I know.”
We stare at each other for a moment without saying anything. We both know the hatred I feel is not related to what he did to me. No, this hatred is the result of the inexplicable feeling of betrayal.
Yes, I feel betrayed and I don’t like that. I can’t explain or make sense of it.
I stop crying.
I start breathing normally again. He picks me up without any effort —it seems like my weight is not an issue for him— and puts me down on the bed. He tucks me in like a child. My eyes are swollen shut and I’m not even trying to open them. He kisses me on the forehead before stumbling away, leaving the door open.
My autopilot kicks in and takes over my body. My mind turns off and I fall asleep.
The next morning finds me on the bed, not wanting to step out of it because getting up would mean seeing him, his face and of course acknowledging these confusing fucking feelings, and I sure as hell don’t want that shit.
When did I start to cuss this much?
Maybe these feelings are not real. Maybe this is just my brain trying to numb the anger. After all, even though the scenery changed, I’m still at Bruno’s mercy.
“Blah, blah, blah. Don’t you get tired of being fucking pathetic? Like, get the fuck up and leave this room. It’s stuffy to say the least, and it smells like you need a shower… or two.”Why is Life this upset? What did I miss? On the other hand, she’s right about the shower. But maybe later.
The sound of clanking silverware reaches the room, and I realize the door is still open. Paying close attention to the noises, I deduce that Bruno has company. I can hear another man’s voice and some laughter, which makes this man close to him. Bruno never jokes with the guards, and the guards are afraid of him.
I jump in a pair of jeans, put on a black tee and head for the kitchen to meet this guy.
The sun shines in through the kitchen windows, bathing the entire counter and making the room feel welcoming and warm. There’s an island in the middle where you can always find today’s paper, fresh fruit, and Bruno’s laptop. A black mid-sized wooden table with four matching chairs in the dining-room completes this kitchen, which looks taken right out of Pinterest. Bruno likes to cook; he spends endless hours in this place, crafting homemade delights to perfection, which is why all the appliances are professional grade, like him come to think of it.
A cup of steaming coffee rests in Bruno’s hand, who’s standing with his hip against the counter. He’s facing a man I’ve never seen before, younger. He doesn’t look like a guard. He’s dressed like a biker.
Why is there a biker here?
He has a cup of coffee as well, and a relaxed demeanor. Something you don’t see in people who are around Bruno these days. When I enter the room, I interrupt their conversation. Bruno’s the first to react to my presence— he shuffles his body forward, walks towards me slowly and steadily and blocks the other man’s view in the process.
“How are you doing today?” He’s way too close; he seems more confident than before when it comes to personal space.
Did something change last night?I suspected that much, but now I know for sure.
“Fine. I can go somewhere else, so you can finish your conversation—” I signal around with an open hand.
“Of course not. I’ve got your breakfast ready.” His eyes are bloodshot, and a band-aid is covering the place where he hit his head last night.
Without another word, Bruno starts to set the breakfast table loudly while I sit down. The other man, who’s yet to be introduced, looks at him with a smirk and then switches to me to see if I find it funny as well. He waves at me without uttering a single syllable. I wave back. Then, without breaking eye contact with me, he points in Bruno’s direction, who’s still being extremely loud and has his back turned to us, makes the universal gesture for ‘he’s crazy,’ and then laughs softly, making me giggle loud enough for Bruno to notice and make me realize this is the first time I’ve giggled since I’m out. I’m feeling something, but I can’t really put my finger on what it is. By now, Bruno heard us and turns to see what’s going on. He looks at both of us quickly and understands that we were laughing at him.
He doesn’t like that.
I’m now having breakfast and Bruno finally introduces this mysterious man to me. “Carter, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Carter, my… cousin.”Cousin?Bruno didn’t seem like the family type; it looks like I got it wrong. Carter is extremely handsome. He has a young Clint Eastwood kind of charm, something rare nowadays. He’s looking at me with a full smile, a very Hollywood smile. Clearly, the family genes were good with this pair.
