DELILAH
I’m starting to wish I had taken Lauren up on those pills.
I can’t get comfortable to save my life. It’s not the bed’s fault. It’s my brain. All I’ve done for hours is lie one way and another. Arranging the pillows. Adding a blanket and taking it off not long after. Putting a pillow between my knees before changing my mind and hugging it to my chest. Moving from my stomach to my side and then back again.
I’ve done it all, and I’m still awake, no closer to drowsiness than I was before. Which sucks since I have to face my fate in the morning.
The less sleep I get, the more vulnerable I’ll be. No, I don’t think anybody will attack me the first day—that’s not how they operate. I understand enough about the way they think to know they would rather torment me a little first, like a cat playing with a dying mouse before finally putting it out of its misery. That will be me, a dying mouse with so many cats surrounding me. Claws out, batting me back and forth between them.
I guess it’s not surprising that I can’t shut my brain down.
What’s saddest is not having happy memories to think about as a way of relaxing. The few times I was sick as a kid, like really sick, my mother—it’s still so weird, thinking of her that way—would try to lull me to sleep by telling me to think of something happy. Something I was looking forward to, something nice.
I don’t have any of that. What’s a happy memory? What does that even look like anymore? Great. Now I’m annoying myself on top of everything else. I squeeze my eyes shut and force my body to go limp, wiping clean all the thoughts in my mind.
It doesn’t stay clear for long. A face begins to materialize in the darkness. Followed by the sensation of being held and caressed—protected.
Of all the times for me to think about Lucas. Am I ever going to free myself of him? It’s obvious he wants to be free of me. I could at least have enough pride to forget him. Still, thinking about him takes my mind off everything else. I can almost feel his arms wrapped around me and his firm chest against my back. His heartbeat and the rising and fall of his chest as he breathes. I smile a little thinking about—
CRASH.
The door to my room flies open with a bang, slapping against the wall so hard it feels like the entire room is shaking. A high-pitched scream echoes through the space a moment before I realize it’s me screaming. I sit up, pulling the blankets around my shoulders as if that could protect me from anything.
This is it.
This is how they’re going to do it.
Why the hell didn’t I try to get my hands on a weapon before now? They won’t even let me go to class. I should have known they would rather get rid of me before anybody has to set eyes on me.
“You!” Lucas’s deep voice booms through the room. The fog clouding my mind clears, and I realize it isn’t a student standing in the doorway.
“Lucas?” I whisper, opening my eyes as wide as I can to adjust to the darkness. He’s still standing there, only a silhouette of his wide shoulders almost filling the doorway, blocking out most of the light from the hall.
He stumbles into the room, slamming the door behind him and startling me once more. My heart is in my throat, and my instincts are telling me to get the hell out of bed and away from him. He’s dangerous, like a grenade waiting to go off.
It’s like one animal scenting another and knowing they’re a threat. He doesn’t have to say a word, I know he could hurt me, and part of me knows he wants to. He raises a bottle to his lips and throws his head back, emptying it before tossing it to the floor.
“You,” he repeats. This time, I notice the slight slur in the single word. He is drunk.
“Me?” I whisper, wondering where this is going to go.
“Biggest fucking mistake I ever made.” He sways, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. I’m finally loose enough to lean over and turn on the lamp on the nightstand, so at least I can see him clearly.
Right away, I sort of wish I hadn’t.
He’s devilish looking with his dark hair an unruly mess like he’s been running his hands through it. There is a wet spot on his shirt where he’s spilled liquor on himself—whiskey, by the odor rolling off him. Even from here, I can smell it, clinging to him like a second skin. He’s not usually sloppy like this. Something is wrong.
I stare into his bloodshot eyes. The darkness in them makes me wonder if I should run for the bathroom and lock the door. They’re cold. Like a shark’s, the pupils dilated to the point where they block out almost the entire iris.
And they’re focused on me.
He raises his arm, pointing at me. “The biggest fucking mistake I ever made was bringing you here.”
Am I supposed to say something? Or maybe I’m supposed to comfort him. Is that what this is about? Offering him a little solace?
“And now,” he continues, his voice thick, “anything happens to you, and it’s on my fucking conscience. Like I fucking need that. Like you’re even fucking worth it.” His arm drops to his side, but he’s still glaring at me. Challenging me. Like he’s jonesing for an excuse to get in a fight.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I whisper. “Am I supposed to apologize because you chose to bring me here? You didn’t have to do that in the first place. But you decided I needed to be punished even more than I was in that awful place.” And then, because I can’t help myself, and I’ve never been good at making the right choices. “By your son-in-law.”