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He calmly sets it on the bed, and I huff, walking over to my duffle bag and stuffing it into a corner before sitting on the couch. There is no way I’m unpacking. I don’t do that shit. I can live out of a suitcase or hamper for months. Who needs to fold clothes?
Not me, that’s who.
I don’t know what to do with myself now that I’m stuck in this tiny space, watching Skylar slowly unpack his shit. The rope is staring at me longingly.
I am going to saw it in half tonight while Skylar sleeps. Gonna broil it in the oven, just reduce it to ashes.
He sees me watching and pauses before grabbing the rope and setting it on top of the fridge.
Fucker knows I can’t reach it. Well, little does he know that I can scale shit just fine. I will reach it no problem when he’s not looking. He will not be using that rope on me.
Hell no.
“Better get comfortable. We’re here for a bit,” Skylar says and then disappears outside, probably to scope shit out. While he’s gone, I eye the rope again and then decide I might not have enough time to actually grab it right this second. Although, it may be worth trying, just to see his face and watch him realize how determined I am.
My teeth work my bottom lip as I plot the best course of action, but my plans are interrupted when Skylar abruptly returns. He stomps inside, those boots of his knocking heavily against the worn wooden floors. I hear the rustling of plastic bags and glance back from my place on the couch to see Skylar lugging in bags of food.
It would be polite to offer to help, but I decide not to. I’m not polite. I’m the rudest sonofabitch. So, instead, I sink down further into the couch cushions and turn on the TV. Infomercials pop up, and I half-listen, half-watch as Skylar unpacks the food in the background.
I know he cooks. He’s made quite a few meals for me in the past. They’re all disgustingly delicious.
“Go brush your teeth,” Skylar suddenly tells me, and I give him the stink eye.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you smell like vomit. Go shower while you’re at it.”
“No.”
His movements pause and he peers over his shoulder at me, looking far too calm for my liking. “Fine.”
Well…that just makes me want to punch him. Why did he give up so easily? What is his plan? I think on it for far too long and end up in the shower anyways, scrubbing at my teeth like a belligerent, defiant child.
I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him to one-up me. Fuck no.
I took matters into my own hands and did whatIwanted to do.
When I emerge from the shower, the towel around my waist, I see Skylar in the kitchen, his back to me. He doesn’t even turn around and acknowledge me, which irritates me to no end.
I stomp to my duffle bag and pull out a new shirt and tug it on before shuffling around and searching for some pants. It’s only then that I realize I never packed any…so I’m left to wear a shirt and my boxers.
Well, that’s fine with me. Pants are constricting anyways. A real bother.
“I doubt there’s a laundry machine here,” I say, and Skylar finally turns around, a wooden spoon in his hand.
“Nope.”
I sigh and then lament over my poor packing skills.
“There’s a sink, and I brought some detergent.”
“Yeah, no thanks,” I mutter and toss my dirty clothes into the corner. The spiders can make their home in them for all I care.
Skylar turns back around and continues stirring something in the pot that smells slightly odd, but still, my empty stomach rumbles, and I punch at it.
Do not sound desperate.
Never desperate.
