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My eyes creep open to sunlight streaming in through the partially drawn curtains of my bedroom window. Groggily, I blink myself awake, feeling around the bed.
Something feels off, and I know what that means…
I may have walked in my sleep.
I know I do it. I’ve suffered from sleepwalking for years. Back when it started, it was nerve-racking, waking up not in my bed. James took me to a doctor a few times, but nothing has really helped. I accepted it long ago. And though I have no recollection of what I do, wandering around at night unconscious, I always have this feeling when I wake up knowing I’ve done it. Like a dream I can’t quite grasp.
These recollections resonate in my mind… It’s been this way for a long time. And now I can barely even tell where my dreams end and reality begins.
But I haven’t woken up outside of my bed in years. Somehow, I always seem to find my way back, which is interesting, to say the least.
Rubbing my eyes, I fling my legs out of bed, cringing at how bright it is outside. The sun is reflecting off the snow, blinding me even through the curtains. I make my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a shower.
Once I’m done and dressed in black jeans and a flannel, I head downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs rumbling my stomach. I swing into the kitchen, where James is standing in front of the stove, poking at things with a spatula.
Pushing away the awkwardness I always feel around him lately, I chirp, “Good morning.”
He does a little nod over his shoulder, nothing but a grunt for a response. Pretty on-brand for my adoptive father.
Pulling out a chair, I take a seat at the island, watching him intently. I do most of the cooking in our household, because I love it. Cooking is my favorite thing, baking in particular, and I love trying out new recipes on my guardian. I get no protest whatsoever from James, since he loves to eat, same as me. We have powerful appetites between the two of us.
But if it were left up to James, we’d eat bacon and eggs for every meal, because it’s pretty much all he can cook. Maybe that’s part of the reason I learned so young. I wanted to make sure he got a proper meal. And myself, too… But I guess I just enjoy doting on him.
My jaw tenses, reminding myself for the millionth time that it’s strictly familial. Nothing more.
The room is devoid of conversation. The only sounds are those of the food cooking and James cleaning up as he goes. When he’s done, he brings over two plates, setting one down in front of me, then taking a seat himself across the island with his own, immediately digging in.
We eat in silence, as usual. James isn’t a big talker. He never has been. If I want his words, I need to drag them out of him. Kind of like last night, though I have no desire to bring up the relationship topic again.
James finishes his food first and stays seated at the table until I’m done. We’re not a typical family in any real way, but we do have our traditions. Like eating together, for one. James has insisted, since I was a child, that we always sit down for our meals together, when we’re both here. Regardless of whether we do it in silence, apparently having this family time is important.
Speaking of traditions… “So we’re watching A Christmas Story tonight, right?” I ask him, glancing up while nibbling my last bite of bacon.
His lips quirk in a casually placating way. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My stomach does a weird hop thing I ignore as I stand up and bring our plates to the sink. I also tend to do most of the cleaning and housework, just because James works hard, and I like for him to come home to a clean house.
And yes, I realize the more I reveal with this inner monologue, the more I sound like a housewife. I swear to God, I’m not trying to be this way. It’s just what I do.
As much as I say James is a loner, I’m sort of the same. I have a few friends I hang out with on weekends, or occasionally after school. But I’ve never even needed a curfew because I just… love coming home.
I like spending time here, alone… or with him. I probably sound like the ultimate hermit too, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I’ve spent my teen years going to school and getting good grades. I’ve taken a few culinary classes, and I think if I were to go to college, it would definitely be for baking. But I’m eighteen and I haven’t even applied to school. At the very least, I’m taking a year. Just to figure myself out, I guess.
To see if I’m even capable of cutting the cord and leaving James. Honestly, I fucking hate the idea.
The thing about my adoptive father is that he doesn’t push. I’d like to think he does so because he wants me around, too. But the more likely reason is that he’s not that kind of dad. He’s told me before that he raised me the way he thought my parents would have.
It makes me happy and wrenches my gut at the same time.
Busying myself with the dishes, I ignore how hyperaware I always seem to be of his presence in the room. It’s like I can feel him when he’s close, and I miss the feeling when he’s not. I’m a fucking whacko. I need to get a grip.
Prime example being how when his thumping footsteps move in closer to where I’m standing, my back goes rigid.
“Going outside to gather more firewood,” he says, his brogue assaulting my back, so startling in its nearing vibrations, I actually flinch. He places his coffee mug in the sink, arm brushing mine as he does. I have goosebumps. I can fucking see them. “It’s supposed to start snowing more in a couple hours.”
“Mhm, okay.” My voice sounds annoyingly breathy as I scrub the same spot on the pan I’ve been doing for minutes now.
James is still standing right the fuck next to me, and I can feel him staring at the side of my face. I’d love to turn and see what he wants, but I just know I don’t possess the means to do so normally. If I look at him right now, I fear he’ll be able to see all the sickening perversions living in my brain.
