Page 77 of Left In The Dark

Late for what? Is he working late? He doesn’t usually work at night. I sulk, my bottom lip jutting out, and he sighs.

“I have to go, but I wanted to get you clean first so you can sleep better and not keep stinking up the barn.”

I look around, pulling my arms free. I move so fast that I fall hard on my ass and let out a tiny whine.

“I’ll bring you back some dinner in a couple of hours. Maybe a burger from the bowling alley.” He curses under his breath.

He’s going out somewhere? Who’s meeting him there? No one bowls alone and he hasn’t once mentioned any friends. Everyone has someone they hang out with on occasion, so it shouldn’t be that big a surprise. But it’s not fair that he gets to leave while I stay here. It’s really unfair that someone else gets to talk to him and share his company.

The jealousy hits harder than I expect it to. I haven’t made sense to myself in a while, so of course I’m only going downhill from here. But I no longer care as long as he stays. We can play games here. What about reading the rest of the book? I want to touch him some more, and the question nags at the back of my head as he’s turning away from me.

Different words than I mean to say come out instead. “Wait.”

He looks back, craning his neck, and his mask shifts with his face. He stares at me, saying nothing, and my stomach folds in on itself when he shakes his head, holding his hand in the air when I crawl to him.

“Stay there and listen to your music. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Can we read when you’re back?”

“Did I tell you to talk? I don’t remember asking a question that requires a response with words.”

I don’t understand. I was switching between the two sides of myself without him caring last time he was here. He was letting me be who I needed to be when I needed to be it. He was letting me choose. Why do I feel like we’ve taken a huge step backwards.

“Am I not doing things right anymore? Are you disappointed in me? I don’t know what I did wrong,” I cry out.

“You’re doing it now,” he shouts and hurries down the ladder, slamming the barn doors so hard the walls shake.

I crumple to the floor, clawing at the blanket and wiping my streaming tears on my arm.

I don’t move from where I am until the doors open again later. The ladder shakes and the floors creak. I look up when his footsteps get close enough, pulling the covers from my face, and he sets a white plastic food box on the floor next to me.

“I was out longer than I thought I’d be, but it looks like you needed the extra sleep anyway.”

I nod, staring at the box and not moving. Sighing, he scrubs at the back of his head, stretching out his arm. “That outburst earlier was uncalled for.”

I nod again and sniffle. You won’t lose any of your things, but you will lose privileges to eat and talk like Blake until I say otherwise.

I swallow down the thickness in my throat and look down at my twisting hands, and he continues to talk. “That means not having me to talk to or taking care of Blake needs too.”

My tears fall again and I oink twice, keeping my head down.

“I’m tired so I’m going to bed. You can still eat your food from a plate, but no using your hands. No coloring or writing on the walls. Do you understand?”

“Oink oink,” I say quickly and he nods.

“Good. I hate having to go back to where we were, but you gave me no choice with that little scene you caused earlier. You almost kicked me along with the bucket, and be glad that you fucking didn’t.”

He’s cursing at me. Another bad sign. I stay silent and he lets out a drawn‑out breath before leaving me alone. I’m alone for days and days, given the silent treatment whenever he comes up here while I’m awake. He’s back to bringing me scraps, and I almost get excited when he looks at the book, my stomach sinking when he keeps walking to the ladder.

I don’t think it can get any worse until he stocks the fridge with vegetables, salami, fruit, and boiled eggs so that he doesn’t have to return for days. When he does come, he’ll leave cornbread and other random things like bowls of cereal or peanut butter sandwiches. Sometimes he brings me coffee too. We go on for weeks like this, with him not talking to me, and I don’t think I can take it anymore.

I turn to the wall and an idea strikes me when I see parts of the wood splinting. He came when I last hurt myself, and if I do it again by accident somehow, he’ll have to help me get better. That means more time spent with me here and more touching me. More of having him close enough I can smell his scent and maybe think of ways to have him grinning at me before the memory fully fades from my mind.

I slowly sit up, looking around, and the snow hits the window. I shiver when I crawl away from the blanket and sit closer to the space heater, holding my face only inches away from it. Grinding my teeth, I take in a deep breath and swiftly shove my face against the hot glass before I can change my mind.

Shooting pain hits my skin, and it’s cold before it burns. I scream, fighting back tears, digging my knees into the floor as I press harder to the glass. When the damage is so bad that I lose feeling, I pull away and fall forward to the floor, hyperventilating. I count in my head, not remembering what number I stop at when the doors swing open.

“What did you do?” he says, racing up the ladder. “Why did you do that?” Is that panic in his voice?