His posture stiffens, making him seem even taller. “I’m sure you don’t, but we need to talk about what just happened. I’m not letting you leave and walk back into whatever is doing that to you.” He gestures toward my face.
“You won’t understand.” I squint my eyes at him. “No one understands.”
“I’m fucking trying to, Skye, but I can’t understand what you refuse to tell me!”
“Move,” I demand as I push against his body and reach for the doorknob.
“I’m in therapy because I’ve been watching my ex-girlfriend . . . kind of obsessively.”
My mouth drops open and I take a step back. “Like, stalking her?”
“I mean . . .” he rubs a hand through his hair. “No.” He shakes his head. “I guess maybe a little bit.”
“Jesus, yeah, I should definitely leave.” I try to push past him, but his body is steadfast.
“Fine, you can leave, but I want you to tell me something first.” He leans his back against the door. “Why are you in therapy? What did your father mean?”
“I tried to kill him.” I sound like a psychopath. I probably am one at this point.
My eyes lock on him as I watch for his reaction to my admission. He’s an emotionless statue.
The corners of his lips rise slightly. “Did you really try to kill your dad?”
“Are you really a stalker?”
The corners of his lips fall.
What have I gotten myself into?
As promised, he steps aside, clearing a space to the door. I drop my backpack to the ground with a huff and shake my head before hurrying back to the bedroom. I slam the door behind me like a petulant child and rub between my eyes. Frustration laces my exhale.
Am I really staying with a self-proclaimed stalker?
Is he allowing a self-proclaimed attempted murderer to stay with him?
What a fucking combo.
Frustration courses through my veins and turns my blood to sludge. I can’t release it without my razor. I turn around, open the bedroom door, and peek out to see if the coast is clear. I race across the hall to the bathroom and close the door behind me. My shaking fingers dig through the cabinet and drawers. He’s a dude. He’s gotta have a razor somewhere. Excitement tightens around my stomach when my hand lands on an old razor with an actual blade.
I tug down the waistband of my jeans, exposing the notch of my hip. I struggle to get the razor away from the head. After wrestling with it for too long, it pops free, and I clean it with soapy water. I press the corner against my skin.
It doesn’t cut like my razors. I have to press harder. The pain ignites my brain and draws the tension to the separated flesh. The frustration drips down the waistband of my pants.
“You okay?” comes a voice from behind the door.
“Yeah, fine!” I yell back.
I grab a tissue, ball it against the cut, and pull my pants up. Blood tinges the silver razor, so I swish it beneath the water before shoving it back into the drawer. When I open the door, he looks at me accusingly. I push him aside and go to the bedroom. The shower turns on in the bathroom as I shut the door, my breath still heavy with pleasurable pain.
* * *
I don’t knowhow much time passed as I sat on the bed with my legs drawn toward my chest. The curve of my body helps my jeans rub against the cut, causing a constant throb. I bathe in the feeling and focus on the ache. It feels like nothing.
The door opens, startling me and making me jump. I flinch at the pain from the sudden jerk of my hip.
Kevin walks in with a blue towel wrapped around his waist. Beads of water drip from his hair and slide down his taut back muscles. Not surprisingly, the look of him like this reminds me of someone that hurt me.
The scratchy feeling of the old cream towel.
My hand is forced beneath it.
The towel slips to his feet before he climbs into my bed.
My head drops forward, and I rest my forehead on my knees, remembering the silent screams. I let the tears fall from beneath clenched eyelids. Even though phantom pains radiate between my legs, this isn’t real.
“I want you to come eat some lunch,” he tells me.
I shake my head.
His dresser drawer closes. I open my eyes, looking at him from the corner of them. He grabs a shirt and jeans before leaving the room.
When I don’t come out of the room, he brings lunch to me. He sets the plate on the table beside the bed, a sandwich resting on top of it. The sight turns my stomach.
“Please eat.” He slides the plate closer.