Page 49 of The Sound of Him

Only.

Only.

Only.

I blink rapidly, willing away the tears that are suddenly stinging in my eyes. All I can see is the blurry plate of food in front of me. I concentrate on it, pretending it’s just me at the table. Just me, safe, alone, maybe hiding under the bed. Maybe with my bunny.Why didn’t I bring him with me?

I force a bite of food past my lips.

It takes up too much room in my mouth, despite not being a large bite. It’s thick and heavy, sitting like concrete on my tongue. My throat has to work harder than it should to choke it down. It leaves me shaky and a little breathless by the time it’s gone.

When I look at the next bite on my fork, my stomach rolls.

Jake laughs, soft and low, warm. He says something.

The others laugh.

I can’t laugh.

I haven’t been able to laugh since that night.

I slip away from the table on wobbly legs, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of all of their gazes watching me.

Trying not to think of those shoes and no air andonly, only, only.

This is how it starts.

I’m at a party in the compound. Master Mica’s party. It’s his birthday. He has chosen me to be the one kneeling at his feet. He’s chosen me for the night. His special little pet.

He offers me a chocolate-covered treat.

I say a timid,Thank you, Master Mica,before leaning forward to delicately accept it with my mouth.

I bite down.

And the sharp taste of peanut butter bursts on my tongue.

Two decades of instinct kicks in. I don’t even have to think. My body knows what to do when this type of accident happens - spit it out fast, don't swallow, hurry to the sink, wash yourmouth out, take an allergy pill, wait with your pen in your hand in case you need it.

I spit it out - fast.

And then I remember where I am.

I freeze.

So does Master Mica.

It's like a cold wave from there, passing over the room until everyone is quiet and still. The only three things that exist are the music, the vibrating tension in the air, and the lingering taste of peanut butter on my tongue.

“Did you just fucking spit that out?” Master Mica asks, his voice ice and blades, a death threat just by existing.

I have to answer, but my mouth is full of the saliva I know I can’t swallow. It'll be a far worse reaction if I swallow, if I send a mouthful of contaminated spit into my system. Spitting more won’t fly either, though.

He backhands me.

I choke on the spit, breathing some in on accident. I gasp for air after. It feels like needles in my lungs. I don't know if that's the allergy already working or the liquid going where it's not meant to go or just sheer panic.

It doesn't matter.