Page 10 of Dark Knight
Then again, I still need to figure out what I need. It seems like no matter what I try, nothing changes. For example, I’m creeping barefoot down the stairs right now, wincing when my foot lands on a creaky board. As if he’s going to fling the door open all at once because he’s always listening, always watching. No matter how I try to avoid him, his attention is always on me. It’s enough to make my skin crawl.
I freeze, listening hard, but there's no sound from the middle bedroom Romero claimed as his own. I'm guessing it was his bedroom when he was a kid, but God forbid he admit it. It might mean admitting he's human, and he wouldn't want to do that.
Eventually, the silence surrounding me is enough reassurance, and I keep moving, rounding the banister and heading for the kitchen. Even in the dark, I can't help but notice how sparse everything is. There's a sofa, a pair of armchairs, and lamps on the end tables. A large flat-screen TV is mounted on the chimney, above the mantle where I placed Mom's ashes when we first arrived.
In other words, the room has everything you would expect but never lived in. It's like when you stage your house before you sell it, and I guess that's exactly what it is. I bet until now, this place sat empty. Cared for, but probably full of whatever furniture was here before...Before what?I don't have the first clue, and I can't pretend I'm not interested in learning more, but I might as well bang my head against a wall because that’s what it’s like trying to get anything out of him.
The kitchen floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I welcome the sensation once I cross the room and flip on the light under the range hood. I wonder how many meals Romero's mom cooked here, if she cooked at all. I wonder what she was like. What kind of woman raises a son who turns out like him? Clearly, some serious shit must have gone down for him to be the way he is: closed-off, able to bottle up his feelings, totally detached most of the time. I can count on one hand the number of times he's shown any actual, genuine emotion.
One of those times wasn't all that long ago. When I first woke up in the hospital with a raging headache, I found him sitting by my bed. He was leaning in, hardly breathing, when he asked if I could hear him. If I knew who he was. I remember the long, shuddering breath he released when I asked where I was and why he was in my face. There was a second when he seemed...real.Human. Then, like turning off a light, he went cold again, standing and leaving my room to find Dad and bring him to me.
Even then, Dad was happy to see me awake but distracted by his worry for Bianca and the baby. Even then, I couldn't take the top spot on his list of priorities.
I shake my head, hoping the movement will dislodge all the thoughts and make them disappear. Thinking about this shit isn't helping. I fling open the cabinet doors, scanning what's inside. I need something to calm me down, the way Sheryl's tea always does. What I wouldn't give for a pot of that fragrant chamomile she always has waiting for me.
Ugh. I could scream I’m so frustrated right now. There isn't a single tea bag in the kitchen. Not even the bland, basic crap on sale at any corner store. It's just tea. It shouldn't bother me so much. Yet all I can do is stand here staring into a cabinet that doesn't hold what I need while the pressure builds in my chest and behind my eyes.
Get it together. Don't be a baby.
I can't help it. This is the straw that broke the camel's back. All I want is a cup of tea so I can maybe calm down enough to get back to sleep.Silly, stupid bitch Tatum can't even have that.I couldn't mourn my mom when she died. I couldn't defend myself against Kristoff. I was never important enough for my dad to pay attention to me for more than a few minutes before returning to what mattered. And now, I can't make a single fucking cup of tea to soothe myself.
No. I will not do this.I will not stand here and weep like a scared child because I can't have a cup of tea. I’m not going to fall apart. This is the problem with remembering things. Eventually, all the pain returns, so much pain I don't know what to do with it. The sort of pain that wants to tear me to pieces, wants to shred me.
I can't handle it. It's going to kill me.
My breath comes fast and short, no matter how I try to calm myself down. I can no longer recall the breathing techniques or the ways to ground yourself. My heart pounds, loud and heavy. The sound deafens me, filling my head with the steady beat of a drum.
Stop, stop, this has to stop, but I don't know how to stop it.My teeth sink into my lip to hold back a hysterical cry threatening to rip through me while my gaze darts over the shadow-filled room. I need something, anything, to make it stop. I need it to go away. I need the pressure inside my head to disappear, the voices, the pain. I need to release it.
I don't know what draws my attention to the knife block on the counter. It makes me think of a girl I knew in high school who wore long sleeves even on hot days and always turned down invites to come over and swim. Eventually, one of the administrators caught on, and she ended up...somewhere. I feel bad now, thinking back on how disgusted I was when I heard she was cutting herself. Her best friend told me she did it because it made her anxiety and stress disappear for a while. I didn't understand that at the time. Why would anybody want to hurt themselves?
Now?I'm so fucking desperate; I would try anything. My chest is going to explode if my head doesn't explode first from all the pressure building in it. I don't have the conscious thought to reach out and run my fingers over one of the plastic handles. Before I know it, the idea of using one of these knives to make the pain go away is too much to resist.
Nothing serious, nothing permanent. Just a little cut. Enough to take the edge off.
When the overhead light suddenly flips on and floods the room with bright, glaring light, I'm too disoriented to understand what happened. I drop the knife back into the block and whirl around to face Romero, who's standing with his hand still touching the light switch. He’s staring at me like he's never seen me before.
I still can't breathe, yet there's a different reason now. It's one thing to see him out of a suit lately— strange enough. However, seeing him in nothing except a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants steals my breath from my lungs and makes my mouth dry.
That's not the weirdest part. There's a flutter in my belly, something familiar but totally unexpected because this is Romero. So what if his abs make it look like he spends his life in a gym? So what if it's not a knife I want to reach for anymore, but his waistband? I want to see what's underneath, hinted at by the sharp V of muscle leading down to…
“I hope this isn't what it looked like when I first walked in.”
Just like that, the fluttering ends. All it took was the sound of his voice, especially that deep note of disapproval resounding through it.
“And what did it look like?” I want him to say it; I want him to look me in the eye and say it out loud.
He makes a big deal of looking around, finally landing on the empty butcher block counter. “I don't see anything you'd have a reason to cut. Why would you need a knife?”
“That's my business, not yours.”
“I hope you don't think that would solve anything. Hurting yourself.” He folds his arms over his chest, and I have to force myself not to stare at his pecs or how his biceps bulge. I knew his physique was amazing thanks to the way his suits have always hugged his broad, muscular frame, but seeing it without layers of fabric is a whole other story.
“My body. My business..”
“I don’t care if it’s your body. I won’t allow you to do that to yourself, not on my watch. Understood? It’ll never be enough anyway, and it won't take away your pain. It might give you some sort of satisfaction, but it will never solve the real issue.”
I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but my surprise emits laughter. “Are you speaking from personal experience, or?”