I'm crying again, but these tears feel different.
These tears feel like hope.
I can do this. I can leave.
I can go to my mother's house, and she'll take me in, and I'll be safe.
I'll be free.
You'd be nothing without me.
I freeze, my hand hovering over the duffel bag.
Who else would want you? Look at yourself.
The voice in my head is so clear, so real, that I actually turn around, expecting to see Cain standing behind me.
But the apartment is empty.
Just me and my half-packed bag and the shattered glass I still haven't cleaned up.
Your own father doesn't want you. Why do you think he's never around?
My hands are shaking harder now.
I look at the bag—at the pitiful collection of clothes and toiletries that represent my entire life—and something in my chest cracks.
Where would I go?
My mother's house is the first place Cain would look.
And he would look. He would come for me. He would find me.
You're mine. You're fucking mine.
He always said he'd find me.
Always said there was nowhere I could run that he wouldn't track me down.
I believed him then. I believe him now.
And even if I got away—even if I managed to disappear—what then?
I have no job. No money of my own. No skills that matter. I'd be starting from nothing, with nothing, and Cain's voice would follow me wherever I went, reminding me of all the ways I'm worthless.
The duffel bag sits on the bed, half-full and accusing.
I should zip it up.
Should grab my keys and walk out the door.
Should prove to myself that I'm stronger than the voice in my head.
I don't.
Instead, I unpack.
Slowly. Methodically.
