"Something I can start and finish. Something that doesn't talk back."
He makes a thoughtful noise. "You think people are something you don't get to 'finish.'"
"I think people change the rules halfway through."
He doesn't argue.
"You've been in your room a lot."
"I like my room."
"You liked the common spaces more. Before."
My knuckles whiten around the dishcloth.
"Ragon told you."
"I have eyes. And a functional memory."
I rinse the pan again even though it's very clean.
"I'm not going to comfort you," he says, and the bluntness is almost a kindness. "That's not my role. Not yet. Maybe never."
I nod.
"But I am going to ask you questions. Even if you don't answer them. Because silence is information too."
"What questions."
He watches me for a long moment.
"Do you genuinely believe you are beyond repair, or is that someone else's voice you've decided to keep?"
The pan slips a little in my hands.
Water runs. The clock ticks. Somewhere down the hall, Marie laughs at something Drake says.
"I should wipe the counters," I say.
"I noticed you do a lot of counters when you're trying not to think."
He lets it go and leaves.
I wipe the counters until they shine.
Gardening becomes my escape.
After the fourth week of exile, my walls start to close in.
It's too quiet in my room. Too loud in the house.
The backyard is just dirt.
I step outside one afternoon because if I stay inside for another minute I might scream. The sun hits my face. The air smells like cut grass and old leaves.
The garden beds along the back fence are fine. Functional. Eli planted what would survive neglect.
My hands itch looking at it.
