Page 64 of Gambler's Conceit
“You know what, Caleb? Fuck you,” I say, and I turn on my heel. I’ll just go back to my room and be alone. It’s better than this indifferent bullshit.
“Stop,” Caleb orders sharply. “I told you what was going to happen. Now sit the fuck down.”
“No, you told me I had to ‘obey’ you,” I snarl at him. “Then you asked me what kind of fucking tea I want, like I’m some old lady. You didn’t tell me what was going to happen. I don’t want tea, and I don’t want to be around you anymore. Just go back to bed like you wanted.”
Caleb glares at me, but the glasses make his eyes look smaller, and his hair is disheveled. He doesn’t look like some hotshot dominant asshole.
He’s just some guy.
“I’m leaving,” I announce. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to do any of this.”
Caleb sighs loudly.
The kettle lets out a sound to announce that the water is done boiling.
“Go sit on the couch. If you disobey, if you try to leave—I will tie you to the fucking guest bed and leave you there. Isolated. Alone.”
The idea of it is horrifying, but I swallow down my panic as I let my rage to the forefront. “Don’t bother. I’ll go there myself. Isolated and alone and away fromyou.” I storm off, hugging my arms against my chest. The urge to dig my nails deep into them is strong, to feel something other than this desperate misery, and it’s all I can do not to do it.
Not where he can see, at least. He doesn’t have to know what happens behind closed doors.
Caleb doesn’t follow me.
I want to slam the door shut, but I can’t even get myself to close it all the way. I stare at the small opening between the door and the doorframe, and I tell myself that Caleb isn’t really going to lock me in, that I’m notreallygoing to be trapped here.
It doesn’t help.
After a few minutes, I hear the TV in the living room.
I huff out a laugh of disbelief, but it turns into a sob. Of course he doesn’t fucking care. He’d rather lock me up and leave me alone than to…
What?
I wouldn’t want to deal with me either.
I sniffle, but I can’t bring myself to go back out there.
My arms are still wrapped around my body, and my nails graze my skin—lightly at first, then outright clawing. Breaking the skin is harder than it sounds, but I need this. I need this to hurt. I need this to remind me that no one gives a fuck about me.
In the end, they all just use me and toss me aside when I’m inconvenient for them.
My nails dig in harder, deeper, leaving crescents and scratches and marks that I’ve brought onto myself.
Everyone would be furious with me for hurting myself.
That’s their job.
But I tried. I tried to get Caleb to hurt me, and he fucking wouldn’t.
I throw myself onto the bed face down, burying my face in the pillow as ugly sobs start to wrack my body. I tug at my hair to feel the pain, harshly twisting and pretending it’s someone else, that I’m not beingignored.
I let out a long, ugly sob, and I should be quiet, I need to be quiet because being loud means getting punished, but punishment is still better than this fucking silence.
The walls are closing in on me. I scratch my arm and sob through the tears.
Stop crying, baby. You’re too old for tantrums.
A meow suddenly breaks through my pathetic noises.