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With my back to him, my eyes linger on the two toddlers. This picture was taken around a year and a half ago. They were just two. They’re going to be four in December.
And I need to be out of here by then. I must. A ball of pain grows in my throat, and when I swallow, it falls to the pit of my stomach. I miss them. Nothing hurts like the way I miss them. I will not be whole until we’re reunited. No matter what, I will do anything to go back to them.
Barely able to see my future as far as tomorrow, I lie down and look at the ceiling, refusing to look at Nate.
“Are you still mad at me?”
His question surprises me. It sounds so genuine, like the answer matters to him.
“You’re asking me if I’m still mad that you forced me to marry you and won’t let me leave this house? Or if I’m still mad that I can’t run my gang anymore and you’re just giving it away to someone else?”
He’s still sitting up, and his hand comes to my cheek, nudging me to look at him. “All of it?”
“Nate,” I snort. “Can you hear yourself?”
“Just answer.” He licks his lips. “Please?”
“My mood shouldn’t matter to you.”
“What if it does?” He shifts to face me completely.
“If it does, let me go.”
His eyes close, and he looks like he’s searching for patience deep within himself. “I can’t do that.”
“You can.” I sit up beside him, putting a hand on his chest. “Let me go.”
When his eyes open again, for the first time, he looks at me with a sorry emanating from his body. “I can’t, because I need you by my side, little sunflower. At least until I can make sense of this.”
“Make sense of what?”
He grabs my hand on his chest, drags it to where his heart is, and looks deep into my eyes.
His heartbeat is uneven, racing one second, skipping beats the next. For a minute, I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.
“This,” he explains again.
My mouth drops open, but no words come out.
“I…” Know what you mean.
It doesn’t come. I try to say it. I try to be vulnerable.
But my tongue won’t. At least it’s on my side. Unlike my heart.
24
KAYLA
madhouse - Nessa Barrett
The next day, I wake up clinging to his body again. And all the days in the following two weeks too. Every morning, I’m holding on to him, a headache beating in my skull.
Every morning, he’s ready for me with a tablet and a glass of water.
“At least you didn’t slap me this time,” he tells me softly before heading for a shower. But I don’t even know what he’s talking about.
My days are interminable. All I do is wait, talk to the guards, plan an escape, and fail to put my plan into action. And when I’m sure it’s safe, I call my mum. I ask for news of my family while avoiding questions I can’t answer. The pain of not being free to join them never goes away.
