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I wishI could fall asleep that easily, but even with a full stomach, a comfortable bed, and my sister close to me as the fire warms the room, I'm wide awake. No matter how hard I try to believe the little story Olive and I just made, I can’t stop seeing Adrik every time I close my eyes. Even when he’s not around, he annoys me. How am I supposed to get through the following months without going completely insane?
This is how horror movies begin. Like that one Olive loves… the shining? Horrible movie. Absolutely unnerving. She says that’s what makes it good art, but I say why waste my time being scared about something when real life is already horrifying enough?
Self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose.
I turn over and look up at the painted ceiling. It’s strange. Just like the paintings in the foyer downstairs. Animals killing one another under strange moonlight and tall grass hiding mysteries only the painter will know. I force my eyes shut and just like that, I’ve fallen asleep. But my dreams provide no escape because I still see Adrik in all of them.
This time he’s got a gun to someone’s head and as I approach him, I realize the gun is to my head. And I'm watching this play out over and over, thinking each time it will be different, but it isn’t. I’m in danger, and he is the reason, and I cannot escape it. Can’t scream because my voice is muted. It’s a panic that makes my entire body feel frozen. Not just rigid, but cold. Colder than I’ve ever been.
This icy chill covers my skin and sinks into my bones, and eventually, it’s what wakes me. The sun has barely risen, snow is still falling. Maybe faster and more furiously than last night. I look over to my left. Olive is still fast asleep, not noticing that the cold from my nightmares has carried over seamlessly. Eerily.
I slide out of bed, nose cold, lips dry and cracked, and shiver all the way to the closet. I decide on a long sleeve thermal turtleneck from Raf Simons winter collection and my cream Gucci cashmere cardigan with gold buttons down the center. For pants, I pull out my black high waist Prada leggings from a drawer on my side of the closet. I pair it with my cream terrycloth sandals, also Prada, and then a random pair of black fuzzy socks to keep my feet warm.
Even with every layer on me, I’m still cold because my face and hands feel like icicles. I push through the pain of it and make my way out of the room, remembering to grab a book I’ve been wanting to escape into since arriving here. As quietly as I can, I head down the hall to the staircase.
Hopefully, the chefs have arrived by now and made breakfast because somehow, even after the giant meal last night, I’m starving. I curve around the staircase and wander down the hallway opposite the garage.
Had it not been for the stream of light under the doorway, I wouldn’t have checked the first room on my right, but I push the door open and peek inside.
It looks like a tiny little kitchen. Sink on one side, stove on the other and a little dining nook tucked on the back wall right beside a tall window. The floors are checkered and the wood on the cabinets is weathered. No one seems to be doing anything inside, and I figure there has to be some food somewhere, so I begin a quiet search through the cabinets. They’re filled with cups and plates and silverware, but no sign of food.
“Hm.” I tap my finger over my lips.
“Oh, great.” A grumble startles me and I quickly turn around. Great is not the word I have in mind when I see him, and by his sarcastic tone, I can tell he feels the same.
“Good morning, Adrik.” I say without a shred of enthusiasm.
“Mm.” He grunts, eyes sleepy as he stumbles over to the stove, turning the knob until it clicks. I step back and watch him pull out a cigarette, touching it to the stove that isn’t lit. His eyes are closed when he brings it, unlit, up to his lips. His unsuccessful first inhale leads to wider eyes than before.
“The fuck?” He mumbles and attempts to turn the stove on again. It clicks a few times and still no fire. “You gotta be shitting me.” I feel like saying the same thing, but for a different reason. Is he trying to blow us up? The fire’s clearly not lighting but I can smell the gas and he’s not stopping even though it’s rancid.
“What?” I ask calmly, though I want to tell him to stop immediately, and he eyes me for a moment before shaking his head.
“The fucking power’s out.”
“You say that like it’s happened a lot.”
“It’s known to happen in storms. The whole town goes down. We’ve tried to get back-up generators, but they fail every time. Fuck.” He punches the stovetop and I sit down at the table.
“What are we going to do?” I am genuinely concerned because I’ve literally never left the house for even a sleepover. Now I’m in the middle of Russia, in a snowstorm with my sort of sadistic fiancé, possibly on our way to freezing to death.
“The fuck if I know.” He’s still trying to mess with the stove, and I open my book. Wanting nothing more than to entirely ignore him and fade into the pages of the world in my hands. He continues to fiddle with things, grunting and punching and growing more irritated by the second. I can barely focus on the words I’m reading with all the noise he’s making.
“You know, you got us into this mess.” I glare up at him from my book as he noisily clanks a pot down on the stove, like putting it there will make it light.
“What mess? I got you the fuck outta that house you were withering away in.” He takes an accusing step towards me.
“I happen to like being home.” I lift my nose in the air and tilt my head to the window, not sure who I’m trying to convince.
“Oh really?”
“Really.” I bite back enough that I can see my breath.
“Pretty ungrateful of you to not recognize my effort to keep you safe.”
“Right. That’s what you were doing.”
“The fucks that supposed to mean?”
