Page 3 of Rage
My books are stacked exactly where I left them. My suitcase is still under the bed. My sweater hangs over the desk chair with one sleeve dragging against the floor.
I hold my breath until I open the closet.
Empty.
At night, the memories come anyway. My father’s voice. His hands. His eventual absence, and then Roman’s presence filling the space where safety was supposed to be.
I had run to Roman once I met him at fifteen because running to him felt less dangerous than staying at home with my father.
I’d been wrong.
Sleep offers even less. It’s a battlefield. I bolt awake most nights in a cold sweat, heart hammering, the phantom residue of fear clinging to my skin.
I’ve learned to wait for the floor above to go quiet before I shower. The noise from outside to dissipate. I press my ear to the door. I time my movements around the building’s rhythms so no one sees what I’ve been hiding since I was twelve.
The architecture of damage my father left on my body, preserved cautiously beneath long sleeves.
This morning is no different. I’m waiting for the hallway to empty when I notice it.
A piece of paper on the floor. Folded. Slid under the door with enough precision to suggest it was deliberate.
I pick it up with shaking fingers.
You cried out for someone who never came.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
Not the fear.
Not the pain.
But the silence that followed.
You were taught that no one would answer you.
That no matter how loud you screamed, you’d still be alone.
Most people would be disturbed by it.
I wasn’t.
I listened.
Every sound. Every breath you tried to swallow.
And now I can’t decide what I like more, the way you tried to stay quiet, or the moment you couldn’t.
Some of us are very good at handling monsters.
And some of us prefer them already broken.
— S
The note slips from my fingers.
Someone was outside my door. They listened. They waited.
And when it was over, they didn’t knock or call for help or do any of the things a normal person would do.
