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He doesn’t like me going out alone. I used to think it was him being protective, but now I realize he’s just trying to keep me under his thumb. When I finally landed a job, he said he was happy, but it soon turned sour when he started to belittle me.
The rumble of engines outside alerts me that he’s home. My stomach twists. Cold fear skitters down my spine and it feels like ice has entered my veins. It’s enough to send any sane person mad. The darkness that consumes me when I hear his boots on the stairs makes my vision blurry. I’m not sure if he’s sober or not, but when the front door opens and I hear the sound of his keys jingling as they land in the bowl at the entrance to our apartment, I pray.
I’ve never been one to seek help from a higher power. I don’t think belief in a deity that can save you should carry you through life. But right now, all I can do is pray.
“Clover.” His deep, rumbling tone rattles me as he enters the kitchen to find me at the hob.
The food I’m preparing will need some time to simmer. I turn to offer him a smile, but stop myself when I see the violence in his gaze.
“I was out with the guys,” he tells me. “We went down to the bar for lunch and had some drinks.”
That’s telltale confirmation that tonight is going to go one of two ways—either he’ll get angry, or he’ll pass out. I pray for the latter.
“Did you have a good time, then?” I plaster a fake smile on my face. Deep down, I hope he won’t lose his shit with me. My mind is whirring with possibilities of how I can calm him down.
“I was, until I found some asshole who said he knows you,” he informs me as his tone becomes aggressive.
That’s when my stomach sinks right down to my feet. I didn’t expect this evening to go well when he walked in and he said he’d been out with the guys, but this is something different.
“What?” My voice is a whisper, fear clearly lacing the word as I say it.
“You heard me,” Rogan responds as he pulls the fridge door open and finds a beer. The pop of the can echoes in my ears, causing me to cower back. I don’t want to get into an argument, but it seems as if he’s ready for one.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rogan.” The moment the words leave my mouth, he spins on his heel and the open can of beer is flying across the room toward me.
I manage to move out of the way, and thankfully, it misses me and hits the wall. But the spray spurts from the can and empties all over the floor behind me. I can see a late night of cleaning is in my future. The sticky liquid will soon dry, and it will be a nightmare to get it out from between the floorboards. And if I don’t succeed, I’ll be chastised like a child. Told I’m no good at anything once more. I’ve become accustomed to it now, and I believe it when he says it.
“I don’t like the fact you’re whoring yourself out with random men, and I don’t fucking like it when they’re out there boasting about you,” he spits, anger drenching every word.
“I wasn’t whoring myself out,” I bite out, and I know, the moment the words are out of my mouth, it’s a mistake to think I can fight back when he’s in this kind of mood.
“Then who the fuck is Cody?” His eyes blaze with rage as he glares at me.
He nears me, and I instinctively step back until I hit the wall. Now there’s nowhere else to go, and I wait for the moment of impact.
There have been moments in my life where I’ve wondered why I was put here. Even as a young child, I was philosophical, asking Dad about why we lost Mom and why her life was shorter than his.
Things like that always made me wonder about heaven and hell. We’re taught to believe they exist, even though there’s no proof we end up in either place when we die.
Right at this moment, as Rogan’s hand grips my arm and drags me out of the kitchen, I wonder if hell is actually real. It could be this moment I’m living now, but the blazing inferno could also be my whole relationship with Rogan. A daily occurrence of me paying for sins I don’t know anything about.
I’m nothing more than a shadow, a ghost of who I was. Perhaps I’m the one who’s dead, and those I love—Mama and Dad—are still breathing. Maybe they’re the ones mourning me.
