The footsteps moved toward the basement door.
I tensed automatically, every muscle in my body going rigid, preparing for the interaction, for the exhausting performance of resistance that each of his visits required.
The door opened. I kept my eyes on the wall, fixed on my concrete tree, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
“You’re awake,” Tom said softly. “How do you feel?”
I didn’t answer. The silent treatment had worked before,had gotten under his skin in a way that satisfied something dark in me.
“I brought breakfast.” I heard the clink of a plate being set down. “And water. You need to stay hydrated.”
Silence.
“I know you’re angry about yesterday. About the drugs. But you have to understand—I couldn’t let you hurt yourself. This was the safest way.”
Safe.
He kept using that word like it meant something. Like there was anything safe about this situation.
The only thing that had the power to hurt me here was him.
“I’m going to work now,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Please try to eat something. I know you don’t want to, but you’re just hurting yourself by refusing.”
I heard him move closer, felt him standing there, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment that never came. After a long moment, he sighed—that familiar sound of frustration—and I heard him turn toward the stairs.
His footsteps had already started up the wooden steps when I spoke.
“Wait,” I said, the word escaping before I could stop it.
Tom froze on the stairs, one hand on the railing.
Maybe there was a chance I could use that moment of weakness to get him to trust me. He seemed desperate enough to believe whatever words I told him. He was intelligent, however, so I had to play it right.
“Yes?” Tom’s voice was careful, but underneath the caution was something else—hope, threading through his tone in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in my stomach.
I kept my eyes on the concrete tree, not trusting myself tolook at him directly. “Can you bring me something? The book from my nightstand. I haven’t finished reading it yet.”
The silence stretched long enough that I thought he’d seen through it, recognized the olive branch for the manipulation it was. But then I heard him exhale, heard the relief in his voice.
“Of course. I’ll bring it down right away.”
He left then, his footsteps lighter than they’d been in days.
I sat there in the aftermath, hating myself a little more than I had this morning. The self-loathing sat heavy in my chest, familiar as an old friend.
* * *
Over the next few days, I began to talk more.
Not much at first—just a few short responses whenever he asked me a question. Simple things.Yes. No. Thank you.The bare minimum of human interaction. But it seemed to be more than enough for him, seemed to fill some desperate need I’d been denying him. I watched a new light enter his eyes.
I started eating again, too. I’d finish what was on the plate, no longer letting the food sit untouched as a silent act of defiance.
He’d come down with dinner and find the lunch plate empty, scraped clean. His face would do this complicated thing—relief and hope and something close to joy all tangled together—and he’d look at me like I’d just given him the most precious gift imaginable.
I could see the effect my new behavior had on him, howhe started lingering longer and talking more freely, gradually letting his guard down little by little.
It wasn’t enough.
