"You haven't eaten enough."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
She looks at the food. Then back at me.
"Is that an order?"
The question stabs through me. Fuck.
"No. It's not a fucking order. I'm fucking worried about you," I yell. I slam my hands on the table causing the water glasses to tumble.
She doesn't even flinch.
"Don't be." She stands. "I'm fine. I'll be in our room if you need me."
She leaves.
I sit there, staring at her untouched plate.
Something is very, very wrong.
Day seven.
I find her in the kitchen. It's late afternoon, and she is standing there, staring at the knife block.
Not moving. Just staring.
"Gemma?"
She doesn't respond.
I move closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing." She turns, and I tense. There's a knife in her hand, and she's gripping it so tightly that her knuckles are white.
My blood runs cold.
"Gemma." I step between her and the knives and place my hand on her wrist. "Look at me."
She does. And what I see in her eyes terrifies me. They are a stormy gray, glassy, and unfocused. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was on something.
"Were you going to—" I can't even say it.
"Going to what?"
"Hurt yourself."
She tilts her head. Her eyes focus in on the knife, and she jumps. It clatters to the floor between us. "I wasn't?—"
I'm tense. "Gemma, let me help you."
"Why?" The question is simple. Curious. "I'm just a liability. A traitor. Someone you had to give away to protect yourself. Why would you even care."
"Because you're my wife?—"
