Page 7 of Chasing the Flame
Alarm bells have gone off in my mind all morning. This isn’t the first time Luke has taken from me, and it won’t be the last. But one fact I can't let go of?
I don't remember anything after Luke prepared the tea. The fucked up part? A small part of me suspects that was his plan all along.
That thought sends a vengeful wave of queasiness through me. I let loose a shaky breath, attempting to find my center and retrace my steps.
All that comes back is Luke’s face as I succumb to the darkness. My anxiety skyrockets as I try—and fail—to find the missing pieces. Anger courses through my body, burning brighter with every breath. Understanding claws up my throat, a sob working its way out of my chest.
I’ve been punishing myself, forcing myself to sit in it. For not being stronger, for not standing up for myself, for not fucking leaving before it could get this bad. I knew better than to take that drink from him.
Why the fuck did I do that?
I shake my head, force the wayward thoughts away and turn my gaze toward the windows.
Sunlight is filtering through the sheer curtains in the kitchen, a welcome distraction considering all the darkness covering my mind. I take another sip of the coffee I’ve been drinking, grimacing when I realize it’s gone cold. Sighing, I rise from my spot at the kitchen table and empty the contents into the sink.
Glancing at my watch, I realize morning has faded into the afternoon, and I need to move on if I’m going to get anything done. I get moving, lightly cleaning the kitchen before heading toward the bedrooms on the lower level of the house. Though I pause when I hit the foyer, taking in the grand staircase.
After last night, the upper level of the house is off limits. Despite that, curiosity is eating me, burrowing itself under my skin. I want to know what Luke is hiding and why I’m so sure that he’s hiding something in the first place.
Ultimately, in the end it’s not enough to make me take the first step. Nothing is worth chancing another beating.
Or being raped in my sleep. My heart clenches painfully, a sob threatening to rip from my chest.If Dad were here…
No. I can’t do that to myself. I can’t let myself fall down that rabbit hole of grief today. I’m already behind.
I push past the staircase, leaving all curiosity behind. Heading straight for our bedroom, I prattle off a mental check off list, trying to remember everything I need to take care of. Our main bedroom islarge, with his and hers walk-in closets. A set of huge windows littering either side of our bed, and I already know what my first task will be.
Blackout curtains.
They're without a doubt the best invention, and I refuse to sleep another night without them. I grab my earbuds off my black nightstand, plug them into my ears, and pull up one of my favorite podcasts.
In no time, I’m buzzing around the room, quickly organizing the contents of each box. I’m engrossed in my task, easily clearing three boxes in under thirty minutes. I check my watch, noting that it’s just after two. I have at least another hour to make myself presentable and start dinner.
My stomach knots, remnants of yesterday's dinner playing on a loop in my mind. Fear slices at my insides, the ringing in my ears so loud I think they might burst. I force myself to take a steadying breath, willing my anxiety to recede. Blessedly, it does.
Shuffling through my mental list of his favorite dishes, I carefully remove anything that might set him off. Mistakes are something I can’t afford.
No, I need to choose wisely tonight.
I let my mind wander as I work through the next set of boxes. No matter how hard I try, I can’t let go of the worry swirling in my belly. The only thing I can focus on is how I can’t get this wrong—I just can’t.
After my sixth box is clear, I recheck the time, noting it’s now three in the afternoon. I have another thirty minutes to think of something to make for dinner. “Fuck,” I hiss.
I run through the options one more time, thinking about all the things I already have on hand. I’ve wasted the day away, and now I must make do. I can run to town tomorrow.
I settle on garlic chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and mac and cheese—an easy meal with a little southern flare. With that thought in mind, I put away my supplies and move the remaining boxes to the closets.
I hurry through the task, worrying about how long it will take me to prepare for this evening. Nausea churns in my stomach, bile at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and force the anxiety away.
Now is not the time to panic. Letting loose a shaky breath, I try to calm my racing heart. No need to get so worked up, it’s not like it’ll change anything.
Once I’ve calmed down, I rush through my evening routine. I shower, scrubbing my body until it’s raw. Though it’s not enough to make me feel clean,nothingwill. I don’t bother with my hair; there’s simply no time.
Stepping out of the shower, I reach for my towel, quickly wrapping it snug against my body. My hair products and skincare are already lining the sink, and in no time at all, I’ve completed my routine. I start on my hair, working it into a low ponytail and curling the ends. It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do.
After applying some light makeup, I go to the bedroom and select an appropriate outfit. My stomach churns, but I put on the pale green sundress anyway. After I’ve tightened the straps and adjusted the bodice for a more modest neckline, I give myself a once-over in the mirror.
Before heading to the kitchen, I pair the dress with dangling flower earrings and a few gold bracelets. Satisfied, I walk down the hall, my fingers grazing the wall, mind wandering and consumed with dark thoughts.
