I’m positive that the only thing left is… Well, not a thing, but a person —Bruno. And it’s plain to see we were in a situation where we both needed to move forward, to reach the next logical step, if any, in our ‘weird relationship,’ but couldn’t. Neither of us dared to break the barrier, for fear that maybe the desire to break it was one-sided. But what just happened clearly shows that we both wanted to do it,badly.
I could go looking for Bruno and ask him to forgive me, but I don’t think I’m ready for what could come next— both of us alone in a room, again, after what just happened, could be dangerous.
I don’t know if you noticed it, but something changed tonight. And now somehow, I have to deal with this avalanche of feelings, so suffocating that they’re threatening to bury me alive.
Before he spoke those words, I was feeling strong, invincible even. But now, I’m guilt-ridden and have a bitter taste in my mouth.
I was mean, unthoughtful and a horrible person— in short, a bitch.
I walk out of the kitchen and I hear him juggling weights at the gym; his grunts echo through the house. I don’t want to go in there, even though it’s tempting. I picture him angry and sweaty, hauling dumbbells all over the place, all his muscles getting bigger…
Stop it!
I must stop. I need to think about something else.
The big flat-screen TV in the living room looks at me, persuading me. It will provide me with a fair amount of distraction. I sit down on the couch and turn it on. One of the many food channels is on. A fancy lady, resembling Martha Stuart, pretends to cook in front of the camera. I leave it on only because they are showing how to cook a recipe that my mother used to cook for me: roasted chicken with potatoes. That’s a dish my mother used to cook for both my dad and me. That was the day changer— if we were having a sad or bad day, she would cook it and lift our spirits, turning the day into a joyful one. She always found a way to cheer us up with her cooking skills.
That’s it!
Without losing a beat, I stand on my feet and make my way towards the kitchen again. I’ll honor my mother by cooking her famous roasted chicken with potatoes. And if I do this right, it may serve as an ice breaker, and Bruno might stop being mad at me for being such a jerk.
I’ll put all my time and energy into it. I want it to be nearly as perfect as the one she used to make, even if it takes me more than two hours.
I take the roasting pan out of the oven. The thing looks like it was taken from a cooking magazine ad. I set the table and put it in the center. I’m amazed by it. I’m even smiling while I look at my work. I take two steps back to get a better view of the dining table and then it hits me.
It looks like a table for two people on a date.
Did I really do that?
“You know it, girl,”Life whispers.
I’m waiting for him to swing by the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten for the last couple of hours and, after all, that workout in the gym, he must be really hungry. But he’s not coming, and I’m starting to feel like an idiot. I glance at the clock— it’s eleven o’clock. I stand up and go to his room. The door is closed. I knock twice, he doesn’t answer. Before I can knock again, I hear:
“What do you want, Sarah?” He grunts.
“I cooked dinner, in case you’re hungry,” I reply with caution.
“I’m not, you can have my share if you want.” The answer is like a slap across my face. I don’t insist. Instead, I go back to the kitchen and eat by myself.
The first bite takes me back to the past and I relive my life before the kidnapping. The last Christmas, my father’s birthday and the time I tried to bake him a cake and made a mess, that one time when my mother got a knife-cut on her finger while cooking dinner for us, the way my dad seemed charmed and in love whenever he looked at my mother, the last time I saw them hugging each other. All that dropped like a nuclear bomb, making me weep in silence.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I repeat again and again like a mantra.I’m sorry, I’m sorry…My brain is about to collapse; this might be my last sane thought. I’m covering my eyes with my hands, I’m pushing my palms hard against my eyes as if I could prevent the tears from sliding down my face. What happened? How could this be the end of the story? Why didn’t I die? If I had, she’d still be alive! I want to die!
“I want to die,” I murmur.
I feel his hands sliding under my armpits. He lifts my body with ease, as usual. I surround his hips with my legs, wrapping around him with no intentions to let go, ever. He’s all I have left; Bruno is the ground that supports me.
His perfume fills my lungs, it helps me breathe. He walks around the house while I’m still clinging onto him, buried deep in his neck, sobbing endlessly. He runs his hand along my hair and my back, and he sings something about love. Something about being here, there and everywhere.
By the time the song ends, I’m calm, no longer crying, and he puts me down on the couch. He hugs me tightly without letting me go.
“I’m sorry, Sarah Fitcher. I didn’t want to be rude or ungrateful,” he whispers into my ear. His tone changed, his voice doesn’t sound angry anymore. The energy around him feels different.
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry for being a bitch.”
He laughs, and his laughter echoes in my ears and acts as a painkiller.
