Page 13 of Until You Found Me

He believes that right up until he gets home and makes a left down Arthur’s driveway instead. He finds the other man struggling with a metal pole on the outside of one of those dome creations he keeps insisting will make it easier for him to retire one day if they ever get built.

Logan rushes up to help him secure the pole in place, figuring there’s no harm in asking what he came to say and plenty of harm if he doesn’t. “You’ve been needing me more hours around here, right?”

“As many as you got. Trying to get these domes built before winter really hits so I can rent them out come spring.”

“Might have a little more time opening up. What do you think about a trade instead of cash this time?”

“I’m listening.”

Chapter 4

Tessa’s cooking dinner in a small, sterile kitchen. Pasta boils on the stove, the steam rising from the pot until it absorbs into bare white walls. There’s no hood to catch it. He didn’t want to replace the one that broke. In a fit of rage, he ripped it out one night when smoke triggered the alarm, saying it was useless. Then, he beat the fire alarm with a broom until the cover and battery dropped.

Wires still hang from the battered device. She looks up, finding them in the ceiling. At the same time, a car pulls into the driveway and the engine’s sound sinks her gut like a rock. There’s a list of things she must do before he walks through the door. She mentally runs through them all, wondering if today he might add something extra to have a reason to hit her, as if he needs a reason.

Vacuum the carpet, clean the counters, take out the trash, and set out his favorite snacks. A bowl of goldfish or chips by the TV is required. She does the math for how long it’ll take the meal she’s cooking to finish. It should align with the end of his show and when the snacks run out.

When the doorknob turns she wants to run out the backdoor but her feet refuse to move. She’s stuck at the stove, encased in cement, stirring pasta sauce like the perfect housewife. She always greets him with a smile and agrees with every complaint about the officein calm, muted tones. Feed him, soothe him, ensure he wants for nothing. These are the rules.

There’s a darkened abyss where his face used to be, though. It’s void of any identifying features, nothing but a swirling storm of ink-black clouds. She still knows he’s angry before he says a word. No need to see his expression when the stomp of heavy feet and the crash of a dropped briefcase tell their own story.

Run, run, run, a voice screams, but rough hands are already on her hips before she can plot her escape, digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. He bends her over the stove where she tries not to fall into the pasta water.

She knows what to do. Be still. Don’t cry or it’ll be worse later.

The salty steam from the pot heats her face and neck. The smell of burning sauce wafts up her nostrils and she hopes she’ll make it out of this without burning herself like she’s already scalded the food.

He’ll be angry that she has to start over.

“You’re lucky I can’t stand to touch you,” he sneers into the shell of her ear.

How much did he drink at the bar before coming home? The stink of it on his breath curls into her lungs.

His clothed crotch bumps into her ass with a hard push and he grabs a handful of her hair, yanking it back. Her chest hits the pot of boiling water. It spills over onto her hand, burning red across her knuckles. Tessa screams despite knowing she’s supposed to be quiet.

Some days he likes it more when she cries, likes to feel her suffer, but this must not be one of those days because he stalks out of the room quickly with a growl of annoyance. She slides down to the floor and cradles her burnt hand against her chest.

“Clean yourself up and make a new batch of spaghetti. Get offthe goddamn floor. Do you even care that I had a shit day at work? Did you even ask me what happened? I’m the one who should be crying, not you,” he yells from the living room.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked,” she replies obediently, only grateful when no reply comes.

She gets up on wobbly legs to remake a new batch of pasta after holding her hand under cold water.

After dinner, when he’s sated and full, he tells her he’s sorry, like always. He was only upset from a fight at work and he won’t do it again. She made the best spaghetti he’s ever eaten and he wishes she knew how much he loved her.

She plans to grab his electric razor from the bathroom tomorrow and shave herself nearly bald while he’s at work so he can’t pull her hair again.

The faceless man carries on like nothing happened but the darkness in place of his features takes on a life of its own. It reaches out in wispy tendrils until she’s sure it’ll consume her whole, wrapping around her body like a snake made of smoke. She starts to dissolve like ash right there in her nondescript living room. Her mouth fills with that familiar taste of dirt and earthworms choking her as she tries to climb out of the ground and one hand finally breaks free into the cool autumn air.

* * *

Tessa doesn’t realize she’s screaming until one of the women at the shelter shakes her by the shoulders to snap her out of a nightmare. She scrambles away from the worried face and hisses to leave her alone. Don’t touch her. Someone she only met yesterday with a black eye and two busted front teethflinches away, undeserving of her anger.

She isn’t thinking straight, still caught in fragmented memories. The feeling of his hard hands on her, his hot breath on the back of her neck, the burn on her skin. The fear she felt in that kitchen comes rushing back and she bolts to the bathroom to vomit up last night’s dinner.

A yellow bathtub holds her up while she catches her breath, staring at the faintly discolored skin on her knuckles that proves the nightmare was real. She rubs it with her thumb, noting the pale band where her ring used to be and remembering the scorch of boiling water. It’s meshed into a recent memory of the night before when one of the children burned their fingers on the stove. The boy screamed for half an hour. Tessa heard his sobs in the other room while drifting into a fitful sleep and straight toward her first flashback.

This is why she’s hesitant to remember. Some lingering voice in the deepest recesses of her mind has been telling her she won’t like what she sees. It was right.

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