My only response was to grimace, taking another mouthful of soup. It burned my tongue in an attempt to delay a response.
“I know it’s not going to be your favorite topic, but they’re excited to have something good happen. Something to celebrate.” The last part seemed to hesitate as it passed over the tongue, her hand touching my thigh along with a reassuring squeeze.
I glanced at her hand, and then the long red lashes shading her eyes, not sure if it was some sort of sadness, but it was somber. An expression of loss.
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “It does sound like I missed an eventful dinner.”
“Eventful indeed, but in good spirits. That is what matters.”
Once again, I was left alone with my thoughts.
Looking up through the observatory glass, I could see the faint speckle of stars scattered in the expanse. A stray cloud passed by every now and then as I watched. I found myself entranced. Many hours could be wasted in the glass chamber within my flat. I wasthankful I was allowed to room alone, for I would need a place to escape if I couldn’t physically run from this place. The urge to flee weighed heavily on me, the guilt curling around my chest and squeezing tight. I was privileged to be in this situation, and my sacrifice would mean safety and security for my girls. So why did it feel like this barter would eat away at me?
Retreating to my bedroom, I carried a candle with me to the bedside. The bed had a wooden canopy with heavy curtains gathered neatly together by rope, exposing the dark green sheets below.
Every new thing I found in my room caused a deep stain of dread.
Miscellaneous dried assortments decorated the walls next to old pictures in more expensive frames than previously. There were French doors leading to a small balcony, adequate lighting for the artisan desk, larger than the one we had in the old house. Of course, like everything else, it was brand new. Not one scuff to mark its short lifetime. Everything was more expensive, yet still personal. Familiarity without history, making it just decor, not belongings.
I should be happy to have such material things. To not have to worry about choosing between food and finer living. The idea of being taken care of did not sit right with my soul, though; it utterly refused it.
“I can’t stand this,” I groaned, blowing out my candle before leaving my room.
Down on the second floor, I approached one of the wooden doors. I had to step over a few bags and boxes as I approached. I wanted to knock, but my body was screaming at me not to. Many breaths were taken, and several scenarios crossed my mind, but I chose to ignore them. I lifted my hand to knock but opted for the doorknob instead.
“I was wondering how long you were going to huff and puff out there.” Luka’s eyes never left his sketch pad.
“I would imagine you’d understand the need for a breather before interacting with you.”
“I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that.” He glanced up from his pad. “I think I am absolutely charming.”
He flashed a quick smirk.
He had taken a comfortable position against the headboard as he placed his bound paper down. His blood-filled eyes studied me from afar.
“Why are your eyes . . .”
“To see the colors.” He gestured to the array of different-colored oil pencils scattered on the bed.
“I thought that was an involuntary function.” I frowned.
“It is involuntary.” He started to grin, like some hungry dog. “Occurring at states of high stimulus, particularly arousal?—”
“Enough! I do not need to be subjected to those images,” I huffed.
“You are the one who asked,” he laughed. “Something must be troubling you if you are coming to me for comfort.”
“It will be you seeking comfort when I’m finished.”
“Pardon?” He let out an exasperated laugh.
“I don’t like that you’re here.”
“I don’t imagine you do. But we do what’s best forourNest, isn’t that right?” His eyes narrowed; his tone was playful, like a dare.
“You’re not allowed to feed on them. Touch them. Nothing.”
“And who decides that?”
