Page 53 of His to Own

“So you thought I killed him, is that it?”

I can’t help but nod.

For just a moment, Maxim looks hurt but it’s gone before I can fully process it. “You got to learn to trust me, my shy little wife. Now, get in the car.”

Once we’re on the road, I realize that we’re not heading in the direction of Maxim’s house. I guess it’s my house now as well but it doesn’t feel like home. No place really does.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

I know it’s pointless to ask questions. Maxim will tell me in time. I remind myself that he’s not going to bring me anywhere to hurt me. To his credit, he has shown that he doesn’t want to cause me actual pain. He could have touched me last night and he didn’t. Nothing bad happened as he said.

Maxim stops the car before a nondescript building. Nothing special about it.

“What is this place?” We’re in the downtown area. People walk by on the streets since the air is warmer today. Spring is fully here.

He reaches into the back seat and lifts up my journal.

“Why do you have that?” I ask.

“Because you are going to read your poetry out loud for other people today.”

I blink, not sure if I heard him right. “What?”

“You are going to read your poetry out loud for other people today,” he repeats. “In there” – he points at the building – “is a spot where people can read their writing out loud. Anyone can sign up for it. So I signed you up for it. That’s what we’re going to do this evening.”

I clutch my journal so tight, I’m worried I might rip it. “I never asked for this.”

“I know you didn’t. But you keep your poetry locked away in that journal. It’s time you share it for others. Like you shared it with me.”

“But I didn’t share it with you. You just took my journal from me and read it of your own accord.”

He shrugs. “The point being, you need this, Elena.”

“How do you know what I need?”

“I helped you last night, didn’t I? You went to bed looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you. Am I wrong?”

I stare at him for a long moment before I can answer. “No,” I admit. “You’re not wrong.”

“You need to come out of your shell more. You’re wound so tight. You’re going to break one of these days and I don’t want you passing out anymore. It’s not good for you. So you’re going to go inside that building and you’re going to read one of your poems out loud. So let’s go.”

My body is shaking and my hands are clammy as we go inside the building. It’s small and dark inside. There’s a tiny stage against one wall and a cluster of people seated at tables watching someone stand on the stage, reading what they’ve written. This person – a young woman – wrote a short story from what I can tell. A story about a woman who kills her husband.

Maxim pulls out a chair for me to sit down. A part of me hates him for this. Forcing me to do something I don’t want to do. The only other person who has read my writing is my father and he hated every single thing I wrote. What if all the people in this room despise my poetry? I might crumble into a ball if that’s the case.

The woman finishes her short story and the audience claps for her. A man walks onto the stage next and begins reading a poem he wrote. It’s abstract and hard to grasp.

“Your poetry is much better,” Maxim murmurs to me. I can’t help but blush underneath his compliment. It feels good, I can’t deny.

After a few more people read their pieces of work, it’s my turn. Maxim motions for me to head on stage.

“I’ll be right back here,” he says. I’m not sure if that’s meant to comfort me or not. Maxim’s presence still intimidates me at times.

My legs feel unsteady as I go onto the stage, clutching my journal. I don’t even know which poem to read. I haven’t had time to prepare. This is all too much. Too much again. Blackness darts around the edges of my vision.

“What will you read for us today?” a young man asks me as he fixes the microphone to match my height.