In His Home Pt. 09

I woke with a start.

Gasping and clutching at my chest as nightmares of being shot down gradually faded back to the recesses. The sun was so bright this morning and blinded me when I turned to look for Jamie.

He was not here.

Not at his little table either.

A sick thought took over me, that maybe he was dead, somewhere with blood pooled around his body.

I hoped he wasn't, then thought myself and idiot, and prayed he was.

Tossing the blankets aside, I got to my feet, and stumbled towards the door. I noticed halfway that my arm had little pain and was movable, I hadn't been using it at all, clutching it close, and all the while it had healed up without my knowledge.

The irony was too close to that statement.

I peed quickly, then brushed my teeth, not bothering to wash my face since I went into the shower next.

I dwindled over to his little table and sat down while brushing my hair, bringing a tattered copy of Goodnight Moon before me and thumbing through the pages. I gave a low chuckle when finished and picked up another hard cover, in better condition, called Where The Sidewalk Ends.

I had seen it before, in the library at school and the bookstore shelves but it never piqued my interest. Opening it, I've realized it's nothing but poems and riddles. Things like this never intrigued me, I was right in never caring for it.

I turned to put it back but the damn thing was so heavy, it slipped from my fingers and landed, pages open, on the ground. I sucked in air when it fell and looked around as if someone was there and saw my mistake. When I lifted it a certain poem called 'Us.'

My eyes narrowed at unintelligible markings and I leafed through the pages to see if Jamie had written on any other, I came up empty and wondered why he had scribbled over this one. It was a two-faced figure, with a top hate and different noses, talking about how they disagreed and never got along even though they were stuck together on the same head.

I laughed a bit and reread it, my smile dropping slowly as I did.

It read, "Me and Him Him and Me, We're Always Together As You Can See. I Wish He'd Leave So I'd Be Free I'm Getting A Little Bit Tired Of He, And He May Be A Bit Bored With Me."

Next to it was some scribbles, they were heavy handed and ripped through to the next page, maybe Jamie had gotten frustrated with not understanding but that was such a specific mark on only one page.

I wondered what it meant.

My lips soured as I realized I only wanted something to do and was reading into it. As burly the man was he could not read and made that very well known from the beginning. I hadn't a clue why he would do this considering his personality and limits and chalked it up to it being a hand-me-down.

I set the book aside and rose to my feet, heading downstairs to make me something to eat. If he was dead, I shouldn't starve because he forbade me from caring for myself. The thought brought a grin to my lips.

The kitchen was freezing, I was freezing, but I pushed past knowing the second I started cooking it'd warm the space enough. I made french toast and eggs, bacon and sausage, and heaped the ungodly amount of food onto three plates.

Surprisingly I ate it all, wiping my finger across the grease from the meat and suckling that up as well, nasty as it is.

But still, he never came home.

I washed the dishes and put everything away, shivering through the old haunted house, and to my temporary room where I crawled under the covers and slept off my hearty meal. When I woke refreshed and grinning at my first real, good meal I went and used the bathroom.

He never came home.

My fingers were trembling but I was otherwise preoccupied with reading his books and eating all his food, drinking all his tea and coffee.

But he never came home.

I shifted uncomfortably on the second night, my lips pulled down, as I tried to focus on the words in front of me but found myself staring at the door more often than I'd like to admit.

The house was freezing now, his car gone, food and stories my only entertainment.

Where was he?

On the third day I scoured the creepy home with raised hairs and goosebumps, not entirely from the temperature, for the thermostat. Lucky for me I found it, on a wall in what I'd assume his parents old bedroom. Unluckily for me, I wouldn't go in there if someone paid me more money than I'd ever need and drive me back to my real home.

I shut the door and borrowed a down jacket, pulling out more blankets from the hall closet I found on the way.

The fourth day was like the second, worry eating at me, still finding its way to numb my skin under four layers of clothes and a hoodie under a coat. I was shaking with anger and fear, a dangerous mix. The book in my hand was a pretense, I could not look away from the door.

On the fifth day I decided to run away.

I packed a bag filled with nothing but food and water, flung the door open, but was stopped by a shaking Mike in the drive.

He was undone.

I brought him some tea and sat opposite of him perching on a leather armchair, in a borrowed knitted sweater that came to my knees with jeans he had bought for me. Fuzzy socks I also borrowed so big the heel of the sock was on my calve.

He was wearing the same, better fitted and designer brands, but the same.

Rolling the teacup between his palms, he couldn't even look at me. A deep frown on his lips. Depending on what he was about to say I'd forgive him if only for turning on the heater when I was too chicken to.

My lips parted to start a conversation he obviously was to uncomfortable to do himself and I took it as an exchange for his favor earlier. "Can you tell me about him. Jamie, I mean."

His eyes, like melted chocolate, flicked to mine, a grin touched his lips, and thought it was forced, I was glad we got over the iciness between us. "What would you like to know?"

I nodded in thought, trying to decide what was a safe question, one he wouldn't repeat back to my dear captor. "Why doesn't he speak?"

Mike grimaced, dropping his grin, and turning back to look into his cup as if it had some kind of answer itself. "To answer that, I need to tell you this." He started, setting the porcelain aside, clearing sis throat. "Jamie's childhood is what you are imagining no doubt, he was beaten and starved, petted and forgotten, but mostly hated."

His hands fisted like he was ready to unwind time only to kick Jamie's parents knees in. "His father, Ian, was kind the way crocodiles are. He was big, strong and had a hide like one too. If you want to ask why Jamie is such a big ass motherfucker, you've only got his old man to thank."

He scoffed humorously and scratched behind his ear, "Ian didn't like men, hated women even more because his mom was a real piece of work, I gather. But when he met Janice, he looked like his world was crashing down all around him, his face looked like this."

Mike pulled an expression of awe mixed with unfathomable anger.

"Poor girl, got in well over her head with that one. We all warned her of his aggressive behavior, how mean he could be, but she wouldn't hear it. Waved us all off and devoted her life to him." He loosened a long sigh that made me wonder if Jamie could've been Mike's son in another world. "They married quickly, she fell pregnant even faster, and Ian changed." He shrugged, "He got mad easier, snapped quicker, even hit her in front of us. Pregnant and all. She waved us off even though she was shaking, I'd reckon he never hit her before that."

"It all went downhill." He angled his hand, lowering it, while whistling. "They broke apart and forced themselves back together on a heaping pile of bruises and lies, infidelity and pain more times than I like to think about."

He rubbed his jaw and I shifted, distaste blooming on my tongue about two people I don't even know or shouldn't even care about. I reached for my tea and noted how hard I was shaking.

"Janice went into labor early, from a gut punch is the rumor," I flinched and played it off not wanting him to stop talking, he noted it and went on. "Jamie came out ill, a disappointment to Ian, and he never let it go. Took to shaking him, stomping on his fingers when he was crawling around, leaving him alone for days and screaming at Janet for taking care of him even though he was growing, and fast at that."

The tension shifted from horror to true anger, I was livid, clenching my glass as if to shatter it. His jaw clenched, as if wired shut, then he loosened it and spoke.

"They hated him," He ground out, tears prickling at his eyes and wetting his lashes, "Janet couldn't deal with it anymore, she stopped loving Jamie for Ian, wanting to keep that bastard at her side so she joined in. Slapping him when he spoke, cutting him up on his back and even sliced his mouth when he cried about it." His nail drug down his lip, mimicking the scar I had sneered it more than once.

"They tried to give him away, no one would take him, dumped him on the street, he came right back. So they gave up and kept him, calling him 'Beastly,' and taking their torture up another level, burning him, forced him to watch as Ian cut up some girls and then made him join in, beating him to a pulp until he did..." His voice cracked and he trailed off.

The silence thickened and stretched until he snapped it with an omission.

"That's when I took him," His fingers stretched and cracked, "But it was too late, too far long gone. Jamie was every inch the beast they made him into, thoughtless, impulsive and a killer."

I frowned and he shook his head, clearing himself of those thoughts. "I suspected as much." I spoke softly and cleared my throat of a rock, "But hearing it..." I dashed away tears with the sleeve of my sweater while he nodded.

"Jamie is my boy," He murmured, patting his thigh softly. "And I love him more than anything else in this meager world, I love him more than I love my wife and kids, even myself some days, I love him."

He had to wipe away tears as well.

"But that don't mean he can keep this up," Mike finally looked into my eyes, truly, instead of seeing past me and into a time long ago. "When I asked him not to kill anymore, I knew he couldn't listen to that, it was a half hearted plea, if anything. Unfortunately, that is who he is, that is what his hands were made for, for better or worse."

"Worse." I retorted with a halfhearted chuckle, "Because where is he now?" I snapped mostly to myself. "He made me care for him and where is he now?"

My lips trembled with the realization that those words were not a lie. That I did, somehow along the way, started to at least care for the monster.

Mike nodded knowingly but did not speak on it. For that, I was glad.

"He's never been gone this long." He said instead. "Even when the job is impossible, he has never been gone this long."

"What did you send him to do?" I asked, picking lint of the hem. At his silence I looked up to find him with furrowed brows.

"I didn't send him anywhere." He whispered.

My ears rang with blood while we just stared at each other. Both unsure what was going on now.

I explained to him all he said and the weird message I found on the table. He asked me odd questions as well, what did it look like, when did he receive it, and how did he get it. When I answered those he jumped to his feet with a knowing look, he knew what Jamie was out there doing.

"Stay here, do not open the door for anyone, I have a key and will use it." He seethed, snatching his keys and coat, "If anyone does find their way into this house, kick the rug in the hall, there you will a latch." He paused, waiting for a sign of my acknowledgement or understanding, I gave it and he continued, opening the front door and letting a gust of frigid wind hit our cheeks.

"You get in there and pray they don't know Jamie has a wife."

Blood drained from my face as I watched him slam the door and leave, I locked it quickly, pressing my nose against the glass to see clearer outside. Harsh winds blew against his rich people's car and light from a phone lit his features in the driver's seat.

He was typing furiously, then he left.

And I waited.

I'd wait until Jamie got home, it was the least I could do.

The sixth and seventh day passed, marking a week of his absence, a week of stress and worry. My nails were bleeding from gnawing at them, my hair was sprouting grey, and I was growing gaunt. My stomach revolted whenever I thought of food, whenever I tried but could only think of Jamie and what the hell he was doing out there.

Why he hasn't gotten home?

I scrubbed my face and tossed over Mike's warning yet again.

Pray they don't know Jamie has a wife.

Did I even count? Did this tumultuous, forced marriage truly even count?

I supposed it did, considering Jamie isn't exactly quiet about his feelings towards me whether or not they are returned or forced from my end. Hurting my would hurt him, I guess.

I pushed the curtains the side, kneeling on the bed, looking out of the corner and hoping no one could see his vulnerability because I lacked worldly skill, like stealthily peeking, or staying calm when my idiot captor went and got himself captured, or worse.

There were so many possibilities, so many 'what if's' and 'probables' this was the worst thing that's happened to me in a while, and both times were his stupid fault.

I was really going to die now.

I should set a note aside on how I want to be buried, perhaps even write down everything that's happened so far since being yanked to his side.

A wild beast kidnapping his princess, the crazy marriage, his magical disappearance. I'm sure it'd entertain someone, even if it forced me across the room to vomit into the toilet when I thought about it for too long.

I hated him.

The fifteenth day had come to pass, I was absolute in accepting my captor's death. Though my mind hated him, spat on the idea, though my body warned me from him, it mourned.

I was jittering, like I had drank too much coffee, or was coming down from a high a huge heights. I hadn't been taking care of myself, but my stomach allowed me to eat today, my fingertips dug into the gaunt but full cheeks while grey eyes tore up the rest of myself in the mirror.

This person was pretty in the way fantastical were described. Erotic, mesmerizing, but dangerous. Like spinning into a trap you knew was there but you could not stop yourself. My bones were thin, and sharp, but they did not jut. Not yet. But they could be seen in a sidling movement.

But underneath the frothy brown of my skin, from a summer fading away, my veins coursed in my wrists. Each one as visible as the last despite my coloring, it was a reminder, I was not dead yet, and still, I was walking towards the gallows.

So I turned and I ate all that I could.

After, I upheaved and retched my contents into the toilet, I feel steadfast asleep, right there on the cold ground, that ought to be stone for all its comfort.

On the twentieth-six day, I stopped wondering when Jamie was going to come home. I stopped praying to gods who had never listened me and after careful decision, came to the conclusion that I might go with him.

Jamie was a man of danger, of course there'd be another weapon around this creaking home. He was a perfectionist, a clinical assassin, with muscles for brains and a short temper, but he was never underhanded.

I found what I had been looking for, something I only saw once, and in passing, when he talked to Mike, or whom I thought was Mike, through secret door well messages. It was a long gun, one I was not made acquaintances, but figured it would blow my brains out just fine.

My fingers unhooked it from inside his wardrobe, one that carried a few big weapons other than this one, I frowned to myself and closed the door quietly, shuffling over to his table of unkempt books strewn about by me.

I reached for a copy of The Polar Express, but I only frowned upon seeing it's companion. I sucked my teeth and lifted that one instead, flipping to the right page and making myself more than comfortable.

Tears spilled over and onto his stupid little poem book and I inhaled harshly, exhaling just the same. I imagined Jamie sitting next to me, slowly moving his fingers closer to enclose mine, bracing himself for when I scream at him, and tell him I could never love him.

My heart pounded slowly, no faster, just harder, punishing me.

For being a liar no doubt, as much as I love my brother, I had moved on in no time, just didn't want to say it. But once a glimpse of those inane words left my lips, the feeling seemed to infect the rest of me.

And so I read to him, winding our fingers together.

"Me and Him, Him and Me, were always together as you can see..." My voice came hoarser, harder to use, as if Jamie was infectious. My finger enclosing on the trigger. "I wish he'd leave, so I'd be free, I'm getting a little bit tired of he, and he may be a bit bored with me."

Even my imaginary Jamie had seemed to disagree with that, grunting in distaste while I watched him, really truly watched him, and saw how beautiful he was. How he was a man, the first one, to ever, truly, take care of me.

(bc i cant say exactly what happens here ill paraphrase, Opal tries to pew pew herself and *cease* to exist)