I release the straw from my lips and sink back into the mattress. This little one is going to give me a run for my money, I can tell already.
“Finish it,” Baz pushes.
I frown. “I can’t. Too much at once will make me throw up. I can only have little bits at a time.”
He doesn’t look happy about that. “I can’t sit here all day while you sip.”
“Then don’t. Uncuff me and leave me alone. I feel sick as a dog. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and hibernate until the second trimester.”
“Nice try. But hell no.” Baz bangs the ginger ale back onto the tray causing the whole nightstand to shake before he gets up and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him once again.
Someone needs anger management.
THREE WEEKS AGO,I went to sleep handcuffed to a bed, and when I woke up the restraints were gone. I believed a piece of the man I knew, I cared for, was still present and stirring under the frenzied façade of the person holding me hostage. When I told Baz I just wanted to curl up into a ball and hibernate, I meant it. I’ve felt like death the last few weeks, and barely been able to get out of bed. The first two weeks he kept me locked in the room, visiting periodically during the day to let me use the bathroom, bring me ginger ale and crackers, and soup when I could stomach it. For a psycho, he’s quite attentive when he wants to be. Especially when I shower and he insists on watching. He doesn’t let me out of his sight. He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t. If I was in better health, I would definitely be feistier and harder to handle. But I’m so weak. So tired, the smallest exertion zaps my energy.
It’s amazing that something the size of a pea can cause such havoc. Then again, the same could be said for a bullet.
The last day or two I’ve started to come around. The nausea going rather than coming in longer and longer bouts.
Astonishingly, I finished an entire bowl of soup yesterday under Baz’s watchful eye. I choked down the stringy pieces of chicken and everything.
This morning though, something is different. I feel different. I feel hungry. No, not just hungry, famished. My stomach is actually growling.
“Well, someone has decided food is a good thing, huh?” I pat my usually flat tummy. The lack of nutrition has caused me to lose weight.
I don’t know how long I’m going to have to wait for Baz. He’s usually like clockwork, visiting as soon as the sun comes up. I glance out the window behind my bed. The sun is shining and the snow is glistening as far as the eye can see. He still hasn’t told me where we are. He hasn’t said much over the last few weeks. He’s tight-lipped with information, but one thing is crystal clear—he’s already as attached to this baby as I am. He doesn’t need to say it, because he shows it whenever he’s in my presence, touching my abdomen tenderly every chance he gets. Every chance I allow. As fucked up as this situation is—and it is completely fucked up—we still have some strange, underlying connection. A connection as undefinable now as it was before. I don’t understand it, and I don’t try to. It makes my head hurt, and my pain threshold is dangerously low as of late.
My stomach rumbles again, louder this time. Someone is impatient. Wonder where the little demon gets that from?
“Okay, jeez. You starve me for the last three weeks, and now you want to binge eat? Your daddy is having a psychotic episode. We need to proceed with caution.”
I get up off the bed on shaky legs. “We’ll try the door, but no promises.” Baz hasn’t been volatile the last few weeks, but that fucking insane look in his eyes is becoming more intense. It takes a lot to scare me, and he’s effortlessly scaring the shit out of me.
I don’t care so much about my life, cause really, what’s that worth? Not much. It never has been. Born into nothing, ignored, neglected, harassed, raped, beaten, and turned into a killer, the world would be a much better place without a person like me in it.Butthe brand-new life inside of me has a fighting chance to be better. Gets to grace this world with a clean slate and maybe allow me to find some redemption, because I swear, this child will have a much better life than I ever had. A stellar, shining, happy life that will have no echoes of the darkness of mine.
I pad to the door in bare feet and the ratty T-shirt I’ve been living in the past three weeks. I turn the knob with little hope but am pleasantly surprised when it turns all the way. My stomach growls again as if it knows I’m that much closer to feeding it.
Cautiously, I make my way down the hall and down the stairs to the first floor. Once my naked feet hit the wood, I hear a muffled banging sound. What in the hell is that? I walk through the house, scouting for Baz. I call his name several times to alert him of my presence. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, misconstruing my wandering as an escape attempt or power move.
“Baz?” I call again as I slip through the living room and into the expansive kitchen. This is where the banging is the loudest. I peek out the window over the sink to find Baz with a massive axe in his hand standing over a bluntly cut tree trunk. He’s cutting firewood. A lot of firewood. There are three piles taller than him. How long is he planning to keep me here? Until the second damn coming?
He really doesn’t look good. His beard is long and straggly. His skin is sweaty and pale, and there are enormous dark circles under his eyes. I swear I could use them as a hammock. I know I shouldn’t be concerned, but I am. Because the memory of the man I met in Colorado has continuously haunted me. He may be standing in front of me in body, but not in spirit, and definitely not in mind. I don’t know who that person is outside. He’s a shell, devoid of any tenderness or passion or emotion or charisma that was so abundant before.
Before Baz smashes the next log, he suddenly pauses, lifting his gaze to the window as if he senses me. Our eyes meet, and for a fleeting second, I worry he’s going to freak out, finding me out of the room. Luckily, he doesn’t storm the house like the beaches of Normandy. He just heaves as he stands there, axe in hand, gaze so fucking dark it makes my stomach drop, and my thighs sort of tingle. Deranged be damned, apparently, because it’s clear I am still physically attracted to him. Highly attracted. How many more levels of fucked up can one person be?
I disappear from the window, wanting to find something to eat as quickly as possible before he decides to come inside. I don’t want confrontation. Not on the first day I sort of feel human again.
I rummage through the cabinets and the refrigerator. It’s slim pickings. Not the food choices. What is actually appetizing to me. I settle on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s quick, and the thought of it doesn’t make me queasy.
I grab what I need and spread it out on the counter. My stomach grumbles so loud I swear it physically moves.
“Okay, okay, geez.” I slap the organic slices of peanut buttered and jellied bread together and take a huge bite. I chew slowly, making sure whatever I put in my mouth isn’t going to come shooting back up after I swallow.
All seems well. My stomach isn’t protesting, so I take another bite. Then another and another. Before I know it, I’ve polished off the whole sandwich, and I feel . . .hungry. Still hungry. “Seriously?” I talk downwards. “I call it now, you’re a boy.”
Just as I grab for another piece of bread, the door off the kitchen swings open, and a cold gust of air sends goosebumps up my bare legs. I look over cautiously at Baz with a slice of bread in one hand and a butter knife in the other. It’s dull, but I could still cause some damage with it if I needed to. I watch him through the corner of my eye as he passes by me and opens the refrigerator door. The kitchen isn’t huge, but it’s not small either. There’s breathing room. I gauge him as he pulls out the carton of orange juice and starts to chug. My instincts tell me it’s safe to go back to making my sandwich. He isn’t looking to fight. His body language isn’t defensive and neither is his energy. For now.
I definitely feel his eyes on my every move, though. We don’t say a word to each other, tension present, and as thick and as black as exhaust fumes. I just continue buttering the bread, trying like hell to ignore him.Go away, go away, go away,I chant to myself, eager for him to disappear.
