The saltwater tank was Dax's idea. He read an article about how they can help with anxiety and thought it might be good for me, especially given my interest in biology. He said that reading about the maintenance required and the science behind it made him feel sleepy, so he knew I'd like it.
I was apprehensive, but it turned out to be the first thing that's ever helped, aside from over-exercise and medication. It was peaceful watching them thrive in the environment I created, and I could do it for hours, even in silence. It helped me sleep. As a bonus, maintaining the salinity and managing the protein and lighting for optimal growth proved to be an engaging hobby.
Protein skimmers are far more interesting than the places my mind likes to go when it's quiet.
Unfortunately, reestablishing the ecosystem hasn't been any easier the second time around. I wonder if maybe I should move it to the other side of the room, away from the window. Elias and I might be able to do it together without knocking it over.
I hit ten kilometers just before I round the sidewalk toward the front porch. I'm not sure why, but ever since we moved here and I discovered the campus fitness center is exactly five kilometers from the house, I have to run routes that are multiples of five. I have this route that's ten, another that's fifteen, and one that's twenty. With the temperatures dropping and the nights getting longer, I should map out a longer run for the really bad days.
I slip off my shoes on the front porch, but my socks along with the rest of my clothing are soaked, too, and I know I'm going to leave a trail of water across the wood floors and then onto the carpet until I get to my bedroom. Even if I knew for sure I was the only one here, I wouldn't feel comfortable taking my clothes off outside of my room.
I know I'm not when I pull the door closed behind me and hear Saige's laughter from upstairs.
It seems like she's having a better week. She's laughing more, smiling more. She's been cleaning the house when she gets home in the evenings. I told her she doesn't have to do it, but she says if it's already clean, Elias can't ask her to do it, and her goal is to limit or end communication with him completely.
That seems like it's working, too. Aside from the occasional lewd comment and lingering stares when she isn't looking, Elias has backed off. Somehow, it makes me more rather than less weary. It's not like him to be so quiet. He hasn't gone out all week, and no random girls have come to the house in the middle of the night.
That's not like him, either.
Of course,Icatch every fucking look he sends her way, and I don't like it at all.
Ensuring both doors are locked, I turn on the shower and strip down, keeping my eyes lowered to avoid catching my reflection in the mirror.
I'm hideous under my clothes, and I know that. I'm fucking ruined, and I hate looking at them. I've tried every oil and scar cream there is, but nothing helps, and it just makes me feel even more hopeless.
I've thought about taking a blowtorch to my entire torso. At least then, my body would be my own again. I could take off my shirt and tell people I was in a fire—that I was some kind of fucking hero, and that'd be a hell of a lot better than this.
Stop thinking about it.I'm not going to cry in the shower—not again. I already did that this morning.
After washing my body and my hair, I get out, thankful for the steam covering the mirror, and dry myself before returning to my room. I grab a pair of grey sweats and a Vancouver Canucks hoodie from my closet. I have a few long-sleeved tees, but I can't wear them. I'll buy them occasionally and tell myself that I will, but they always cling too tightly to my chest and biceps, and I don't want to draw that kind of attention to myself. I don't like seeing myself in that way.
I put one on last weekend before I took Saige to my mom's house, thinking I'd like forherto see me that way; after all, the only other people who would see me would be my sister and my mom.
But I took one look at myself in the mirror and started panicking. The longer I looked, the more it felt like the shirt collar was tightening around my neck, choking me.
I ripped it off and threw it on the floor in my closet; it's still there now.
Saige already thinks of me like that, anyway. She looks at me like she wants me, she tells me things I know she doesn't tell anyone else. When I'm lost in my own post-orgasm high, and I look at her, thoroughly fucked, her pussy bared and swollen, I can convince myself that what we have is intimate enough, and she's happy. And in those moments, I'm pretty fucking happy, too.
But then I watch her try not to touch me, crossing her arms in front of her body or folding her hands in her lap. A flash of sadness crosses her golden-brown eyes, and it brings me back to reality. No normal girl would want this, and I know that. Hell, Saige is here against her own will, for fuck's sake.
Hey, do you want to be in a relationship with me and my boyfriend? He cheats, and I can't hold you or be seen naked, but I can offer you emotional support without any vulnerability at all on my part and a thick cock.
No one in their right fucking mind would go for that.
Still, no matter how hard I try to talk myself out of it, I'm getting attached to her. I know Dax sees it, too, but he isn't reeling me back in like he normally does. And I need him to. I need my protector.
I'm just fucking needy, and that's why he'll leave me, too.
Before Saige, I hadn't fucked someone without him there since high school, and the last time didn't end well. We'venever shared someone more than once, either. We don't talk about it, but I know it's to protect me. Because it never goes well when I get attached, and he knows it's not good for what's left of my sanity. But we've also never had that person living in our house with a boundless debt to pay.
I clean the rain spots off my glasses and put them on before crossing through the bathroom into Dax's room.
When I step into his bedroom, Saige is sitting naked on a stool while Dax sits behind his canvas.
I narrow my eyes, looking between the two of them. "What's going on?"
"I told you—Dax has been making me help him with his homework," Saige says.
