Page 17 of Buried in Blood
I sit and eat my muffin as Brooke picks at hers. Reese leans against the island, watching us.
“I think he likes you,” Brooke whispers to me. Pink stains my cheeks as my core heats. “What? No.” I deny it. I have known him the entire time I’ve been with Damien. Reese is a test. I would never be with Reese. Damien will kill me, and from what I know—Reese can be just as badas Damien.
She gives me a look, as if she knows something I don’t. I ignore her. She can’t be serious.
Reese walks out of the room, and the air feels lighter. As if a weighted blanket had just been removed from my body.
“We need to work on your manners,” I say to Brooke.
She gasps.
“What? I have great manners,” she jokes. I don’t laugh. This is serious. If she doesn’t sell, she will die.
And that will be all my fault.
* * *
I have been practicing manners and proper etiquette with Brooke for hours. She seemed like a lost cause at first, but she picked it up rather quickly. I’m surprised. I definitely thought it was going to take longer.
The next step is showing her how to carry herself. She carries herself like a homeless person. Slouched and carefree. That lesson will have to wait for another time, though.
I step into my room and shut the door quietly behind me. My chest rises and falls with exhaustion. Not from movement, but from holding everything in. Holding back words, reactions, fear, and pain.
It’s rotting me from the inside out.
I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser. My face looks normal.
It shouldn’t.
I touch the side of my cheek where Damien struck me. It’s no longer red, but I swear I can still feel the echo of it there.
He used to hit me when I talked back.
Now he hits me for doing nothing wrong. What the fuck?
Isink down onto the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. I try to remember who I used to be before I was his “queen”. Before I was a project. A groomer. A puppet.
But there’s nothing. No spark. No image.
Nothing.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
The clock is ticking, and by clock I mean Damien’s temper. He is a bomb, waiting to explode. A fire, waiting to ignite. A storm, ready to destroy.
He is evil. I don’t think I can outrun evil.
* * *
Dinner time rolls around, and there is no one to be seen. I warm up a bowl of ramen noodles and sit in the living room.
I know, ramen noodles… They’ve been my comfort food since I left home. I had little money, and they aren’t bad for being 50 cents. I keep the TV off, enjoying the quiet before the inevitable storm.
The clock on the wall ticks.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The air conditioner rumbles through the large space, creating a beautiful hum. The curtains sway from where the window is cracked. The house seems happy, serene.
