I watch the tops of the trees sway back and forth in the breeze. I can’t just sit here hour after hour, day after day, waiting for my chance to run. I need to prepare for my moment when it comes. Helen will have all my papers soon.
Looking over at my duffle bag and three sad suitcases that represent my life. When I finally leave here I’ll have even less than those sad-looking bags in the corner. Just the clothes on my back and whatever Helen can provide.
I get up and pace my room. At these moments, this tension coiled inside me. I need to put it to use. It will drive me crazy if I see these four walls day after day, stuck here with my thoughts.
I stop and look at my art room. I go over and open the door.
His precious Persian rug is still on the floor. Someone cleaned up my bed too, because the covers are gone. I go back out to my suitcase, dig through and find my painting clothes. I strip out of my leggings and sweater, toss my t-shirt on the bed, and get into my red paint splatter t-shirt and jean overalls.
This is me. I am not the coiffed princess with the pearls andwhite silk dress. I look at my nails and cringe. His mother will be so disappointed when she sees what a mess I’m going to make of my perfect nails. I smile and wrap my hair in a messy bun, digging in my backpack for an elastic.
I head over to the art room and start to stack my paintings along one wall. I shove everything over to one side and start to roll the mammoth rug. It is heavy, but I am determined not to sit here going stir-crazy like I did last week. He still hasn’t told me if I can go back to work.
It’s probably for the best that Professor Daniels fills my position now; I’ll be leaving it, anyway. At least this way, he will have a reason, not the disappearing act I plan on performing. The rug is halfway rolled, and I hear a knock on my door.
I get up, wipe the sweat off my brow, and answer it. Sasha is holding a tray; she has a look of sympathy as she hands it to me.
“He said you’re to take your meals in your room until further notice. Sorry, Isabella.”
I smile and take the tray. “it’s okay, I fully expected it. Is Danny around?”
Sasha looks at me. “Ahh, I think so. Why? Do you need me to get him?”
I hunch my shoulders. “I was just checking, I might need his assistance with a rug, I'll come get you if I need him. Thank you again for my lunch, Sasha.”
As I close my door, I smile at her to make her feel better. I walk over to the coffee table and set my tray down. Then I grab my plate and go to my usual spot in the window to eat while looking out at the backyard.
Soon, I will leave this place one way or another.
I put my empty plate on the tray and leave it by the door andhead back into my studio, moving everything to the other side of the room, then roll up the rug and begin dragging it out, one foot at a time. I manage to get close to the wall in my bedroom, just off to the side, out of the way, and my bedroom door comes flying open.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Alexander comes right up to my face, his silver eyes scanning me. I moan and stand up, putting my hand on my aching lower back.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I walk away from him, heading back into my studio. He follows me and blocks the door with his big shoulders.
“You could have asked for help? You are so fucken stubborn, you could have hurt yourself.”
I look at him over my shoulder, roll my eyes, and grab a cardboard box and set it on a chair, starting to take out my paint brushes.
“Isabella!” He barks now, stepping into the room. I stop and brush my fingertips back and forth over the soft bristles, ignoring him.
His voice is softer now as he says, “Enough of the theatrics. Don’t talk to me if you don’t want to, but you will not purposely hurt yourself. Ask for help when you need it.”
I exhale deeply; I’m so tired of his mood swings. “The bruises on my body are not of my making. I’m fine.”
It's childish and I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth but, he took my king so I'll take his queen.
Black rook to E8, I take his white Queen.
I can hear him suck in a shocked breath as he takes a step in my direction.
We stand in silence for a few minutes, with my back vulnerable to his advancement if he so chooses, but I’m past the fear ofbeing manhandled by him. I internally brace myself for it; I anticipate the moment when he turns me and backs me into the wall so I am forced to see the fury etched on his features.
I hear his steps move away from me, and the door slams. This time I do jump, my shoulders hunching around my ears as the sound echoes around the room. I put my brushes in the glass jar and take out my apron and towels, laying them on the other side of the room.
I may have pushed too far, spoken a truth I should have kept to myself, but that’s the thing about truths. They often hurt when you harden yourself from hearing them.
I start putting my room together, arranging everything, carefully placing my paintings near the easel and my towels over the rung. I need a chair so I look out the door into the bedroom; the desk has one, so I head toward it and carry it back inside. A bar stool would be better for height and comfort, but I can make do with whatever I can find in this room.
