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Despair. Fear. Sorrow.
Pain.
I splash my face with cold water, shivering, and swallow the sourness in my throat. Fuck. I stare at my bloodshot eyes in the cracked mirror and rub the demon inked on my chest.
You’re safe, I tell myself, Helen’s voice echoing behind my words. You’re safe, warm and healthy. There’s food in the kitchen. You don’t have to do anything you hate to get that food. Hell, you can return to the warmth of your bed and nobody will kick you out.
For now, the voice whispers. And tomorrow?
Dammit.
Instead of going back to bed, I make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge to make a sandwich, and hell if I don’t find half my sliced bread gone. What the fuck?
Typical. Unless I put my stuff under key and lock, my roommates seem to think I’m inviting them to partake.
Clenching and unclenching my hands, I breathe through my anger and the hit of panic. It’s just food, I tell myself. Just some bread. You have enough now. No need to fight over it.
Apparently roommates share everything. That’s what Travis told me the other day. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get the fucking memo. In the group homes where I lived, we didn’t own anything, and we had to fight tooth and nail even for those few things allocated to us.
But that’s over. Over and done with. Not going back there.
Jesus.
It still takes me a moment to move, to grab what’s left, take the ham and slap a sandwich together. The anger remains, though it’s not aimed at my roomies anymore. It takes me a minute to realize it’s aimed at myself—for panicking, for falling back into the past.
And where else would I fall back to, if not the past? It’s what’s behind me, what made me who I am. How can I escape it?
“Dude.” A rusty voice from the kitchen door startles me so badly I almost drop the sandwich. “Whatcha doing up so early? The sun isn’t up yet.”
“Gage.”
His hulking presence fills the kitchen, and I force myself not to retreat. Hell, I’m almost six foot tall, and I train at the gym with the guys whenever I can. Every morning I do sit-ups and push-ups in my room before I head out. I can take him if needed.
Which shouldn’t matter, because this is my roommate who’s currently ignoring me in favor of rummaging in the fridge for breakfast—but on the heels of a night of nightmares liberally mixed with memories, his height and physical mass has me feeling cornered. It doesn’t help that he’s blocking my way out of the kitchen.
“I heard you across the hallway,” he says as he straightens with a box of juice. He lifts the box and drinks straight from it, eyeing me all the while.
“Heard what?” I try to think if I jerked off last night, but I’m pretty sure I dropped like a rock.
“You were shouting something.” He finishes the juice and throws it into the trash. “Couldn’t make out what it was. Nightmare?”
“None of your business,” I mutter between clenched teeth. If he doesn’t move out of the way, I’ll damn well kick him in the nuts, and we’ll see who will be shouting this time. “Move, Gage.”
“Why are you so prickly, man?” He actually folds those massive arms over his chest and plants his feet apart. “I wanna help.”
“With what? I don’t need your help. What I want is to head back to my room, and you’re in the fucking way.”
“Hey now.” He takes a step toward me, and I let go of my plate to better defend myself, bending my knees and raising my fists.
He makes a wild grab at my plate and rescues it, along with the food.
“Damn.” He huffs and shakes his head, staring at the dish and then me with eyes round as saucers. “Fuck, dude. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
A whole lot is wrong with me. Where to start? “Fuck off.”
He places the dish on the counter and steps away, hands raised. “Okay. Fine. If you wanna talk, you know where to find me.”
My pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear him, and my chest is so tight I can’t breathe. I grab my plate, put an arm around it protectively, even though consciously I know Gage won’t try to take it from me—but you never know, right?—and walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs.
