Page 9 of Chasing the Flame
Just go. Out the door and into the night. Run until the air feels clean again.
But it dies just as quickly.
I don’t know this town. I can’t tell anyone. He made sure of that—a tracking app for my car. No real money, not enough to matter. Justhisrules.Hishouse.Hisversion of me.
And I’m still standing in it.
Right where he wants me.
Dinner is quiet.
Luke eats like nothing happened. Like I didn’t wake up hours ago with his filth between my thighs and the weight of silence crushing my chest. Like he didn’t undo me while I was unconscious and unaware, or slap me across the face when he disapproved of my choice of dress.
He chews methodically. Swallows. Occasionally grunts in vague approval of the food I barely remember cooking.
I keep my eyes down. Eat slowly. Carefully. As if the wrong pace might provoke him.
When he finishes, he leans back in his chair with a sigh, nursing a glass of something amber. “There. Was that so hard?”
I stay silent.
He watches me for a second too long, then stands and leaves the room. The low thrum of the television flickers to life down the hall, followed by the creak of the old leather armchair as he settles in.
I stay at the table until the sound of the game fills the house. Until I’m sure he’s distracted.
Then I rise.
I clear the plates with steady hands, rinse them under scalding water, focus on the task, and control what I can.
But halfway through wiping the counter, I stop.
There—just above me.
A creak. So soft, I thought I imagined it. Careful, even—like weight shifting across floorboards.
I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. That same cold tension creeps into my spine—familiar now. The second time. The second night.
Another step. Slower this time. Then more silence.
I glance toward the hallway. Luke hasn’t stirred. Or maybe he has, and he’s testing me. He does that sometimes—sets traps to prove I’m untrustworthy. Unwell.
Still, I find myself moving toward the kitchen door. Just enough to look up.
And then I hear it again. Not a step. A voice.
“Averie…”
It’s breathless, almost pleading. Too soft to be real—yet, too clear to ignore.
I grabthe edge of the counter, my knuckles a chilling white. I’m imagining things. I have to be. Sleep deprivation. Trauma. Luke said I’ve been fragile lately.
Maybe he’s right.
But the air has shifted again. That strange static is back, like something unseen is pressing against the walls, watching and waiting.
I turn off the light, and darkness rushes in like a tide. The house holds its breath.
And again—
