But that was just the beginning. Anthea locked herself in her room. Breakfast, lunch, dinner were sent in and came back untouched. The next two days, she didn't even drink water. Fear wrapped around my heart. I knew this was her way of protesting.
That evening, I put on an apron and went into the kitchen. I had to do something to break this standoff.
I opened the fridge, pulled out the ingredients, planning to make cream of mushroom soup. I washed and sliced the mushrooms and onions, then sautéed them in melted butter. A familiar aroma immediately filled the air. After adding cream and milk, the soup gradually thickened. When seasoning, I followed Anthea's taste—the rightamount of black pepper and salt, no parsley that made her nauseous.
The food sat in a deep ceramic bowl, the creamy white soup steaming, smelling delicious.
But the anxiety in my chest didn't ease—what if she still wouldn't eat? I carried the tray to her room. I knocked a few times with one hand. No response, as expected. I pulled out the spare key and unlocked the door.
The room was pitch black. She hadn't turned on the lights. The curtains blocked out all outside light.
"I'm turning on the light, Anthea," I said, afraid her eyes would be hurt after adjusting to the darkness.
She didn't speak. I waited five seconds in silence, then turned on the softest setting. The moment the light came on, I saw her curled up on the bed, back to the door, her form even thinner than two days ago.
"Get out." Her voice was hoarse and weak, but determined.
I walked straight to the bed and set the tray on the nightstand, the creamy smell filling the room.
"You have to eat, Anthea. It's been two days." I tried to make my voice sound gentle to hide my panic. "I made your favorite cream of mushroom soup. Have some while it's hot?"
"I'm not hungry." She still had her back to me, like even looking at me was too much.
"You want to starve yourself?" My voice came out lower than I'd intended.
Just thinking about her hurting her own body to get away from me made me feel suffocated with rage and pain.
She didn't answer. Silence spread between us.
"If I let you go," I sighed, forcing the words out, "where would you go?"
"Anywhere, as long as it's far from you." She finally turned around, the words cutting me almost instantly.
I looked down at her eyes. She looked at me like I was her enemy. Bitterness spread across my tongue.
"If you don't eat, you won't make it." I sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
She dodged my touch, her eyes full of disgust. "If I die, would that free me from you?"
Those words were like a sharp knife stabbing into the softest part of my chest.
"You want to leave me that badly? Even if it means dying?" My throat felt blocked, every word coming out with pain.
"You forced me to this, Silas!" she shouted, her voice sharp and piercing. "As long as I'm alive, I won't stop trying to escape you. Unless you kill me right now, don't expect me to eat a single bite of your food!"
"Since you won't eat on your own, I'll help you." The determination in her eyes completely ignited the madness I'd been suppressing.
I picked up the bowl and took a mouthful of the hot soup. The warm liquid filled my mouth, carrying the fresh taste of mushrooms and the sweetness of cream. I set down the bowl and leaned over her.
Her eyes widened in horror as she realized what I was going to do.
"Silas, you—"
Before she could finish, my hand was already gripping her chin. She struggled to push me away, but after two days without food, she was too weak. My lips covered hers, forcefully prying open her clenched teeth, pushing the soup into her mouth.
She made muffled sounds of protest in her throat, trying to turn her head away. I held the back of her head, not letting her escape, until I was sure she'd swallowed that mouthful. The moment my lips left hers, her face twisted. She pushed me away and bent over dry heaving, like she wanted to vomit out her organs.
I instinctively reached out to rub her back, but her next words stopped my hand mid-air.
