I roll out of bed the next morning, listening for any noises in the house indicating he’s still here. The house is silent, only the sounds of chirping birds can be heard outside my window. Figuring it’s safe, I drag myself out of my bedroom into the kitchen for food. After making a simple plate of eggs and toast, I pour myself a glass of orange juice. I freeze mid pour when I hear voices down the hallway growing louder as they travel into the kitchen. Every hair on my body stands at attention at the sound of his voice. My muscles tense, my jaw tightens, and I clench my eyes shut.
I feel him before he even has a chance to enter the kitchen. The hate I have for him radiates off me in waves, permeating the space around us. I hate being this close to him. I hate every part of him. I set the jug of orange juice down on the white marble counter with a large thud once they enter. Keeping my head down, I grab my plate, and discretely try to escape the kitchen while I still have a chance.
“Good morning, Bea. You’re so quiet, I completely forgot you were here,” Jenny says, placing a soft hand on my shoulder, halting my escape. Her hand sears into my skin making me flinch and I jerk away from her. My eyes widen in horror, and my body burns at her touch—anyone’s touch for that matter. Her eyes soften, and she quickly moves her hand out of my space, immediately realizing her mistake.
“I’m so sorry, Bea,” she whispers. “I forgot you don’t like to be touched. I promise it won’t happen again.” She graces me with a sad smile before turning to make herself some coffee. I will my rapidly beating heart to slow and try to steady my hands that are trembling so hard, my eggs are quaking.
I can feel his stare on me. Those lifeless eyes burn holes through the side of my head, incinerating me.
“You should really try to get more sleep, hon. You look like you haven’t slept in days. Your mom is going to worry when she sees you,” Jenny says with her back to me as she makes her coffee at the counter. I clench my jaw as anger surges through me.
If I could sleep at night I would, but I can’t. Your boyfriend makes sure of it.
“Oh Connor, that reminds me, your parents are coming home this weekend. Don’t forget, babe.” Jenny turns to him, taking a sip of her coffee. Connor’s face sours at the thought of his father and my mother coming home. “Why do you get so upset whenever they come home?” Jenny questions with furrowed brows as she takes in Connor’s brittle expression. He doesn’t bother answering, instead he opens the fridge searching for something to eat before he leaves for work. But I know the answer. When they’re here, he worries I’ll speak up and tell. But I won’t.
I can’t.
He made damn sure of that a long time ago.
Jenny throws her arms around Connor, kissing him goodbye before they both leave for work like a picture-perfect couple. The display of affection makes bile rise to my throat. He disgusts me. My nostrils flare with every inhale as I try to control my impending sickness. He’s been with Jenny for as long as I can remember, they met in college and have been “inseparable” ever since, but for some awful reason he still comes into my room every night. Even on the nights she sleeps over, he still crawls into my bed, and takes everything that was never his to take. She never suspects a thing. And that’s what hurts the most.
Why can’t anyone just stop and really see what’s happening in our home?
I dart my eyes away, feeling my anger rise. Slipping out of the kitchen with my food, I scurry down the hallway, into my bedroom, and close the door behind me for protection. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not like this door has ever protected me in any way.
No one has.
When I know for certain they’ve both left for work, I finally come out of my bedroom and walk into the living room, feet shuffling like a zombie. I curl my small body into the ottoman placed in front of the window. It gives me a full view of my neighbor’s two-story house.