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I furrow my brows. I think about our conversations before she left that night. I was telling her about my father. She didoffer an apology, but it was right before she hurried off to do something concerning work.
"Is there something in particular you are apologizing for?" I ask.
Could it be that she found out that Thomas killed my father?If she did, that would ruin everything. She'd be more interested in handing Thomas over to the proper authorities than my own plan to kill him.
I cannot have it.
But Rebecca shakes her head, relieving me. "I just felt I didn't offer a proper apology, and I rushed off too quickly. I want you to know that I really feel your pain. I lost my own father not too long ago, as you are aware, so I think we share burdens in this light."
I would have agreed with her, but for the caveat that my father was killed, while hers merely succumbed to the jaws of sickness. If she knew this, she'd double her apologies sincerely, though it doesn't matter, at least not anymore.
She has no part in it since she officially started working for the company about a year or two ago. I'd be surprised if she personally knew my father. So, I know automatically that she has no hand in it.
That's why her apology annoys me, but I shrug it off; there's no need to be pissed. It feels like she's gotten way more sympathetic towards me now that I've revealed that my father passed away.
I didn't tell her that he was killed because I don't want to lead her on to the fact that her husband was the one that committed the offense. In fact, I want her to be in complete oblivion and just leave me to handle the revenge all by myself.
At the end of the day, she does the exact same thing she did the previous day and doesn't let me into her room. I'm notsupposed to be hurt; I'm not supposed to feel bad because this is what I want. I already have her heart.
Why then do I want her body? Why then do I feel a slight sting when she tells me goodnight?
I don't go home today but take to the guest room to spend the night. I lie to myself that I'm too exhausted to walk back and conceal deep inside me the fact that staying here makes me feel closer to Rebecca.
I don't even want to think to myself the possibility of an emotional attachment, even though it's no longer an impossibility. My mood is becoming dependent on seeing her and ensuring that she's safe and healthy.
It feels strange to attach myself to someone in this manner, and I don't like it, but things like this can't be helped. They can only be denied, and that is exactly what I do… with profound vehemence.
I'm about to fall asleep when I hear this little scratchy noise on my door. As every normal human being would, I tense up. There are many theories as to what that could be: the rodents, an intruder, or maybe even Rebecca herself. One can't be too sure. And yes, I am not alien to the possibility of ghosts and ghouls.
"Jordan, are you there?" I hear a tiny, perturbed voice. It's Skylar.
I'm out of my bed before my brain even processes it fully, and I open the door to see the little girl rubbing her eyes with her mouth curved downward in a frown.
"I can't sleep," she whines.
How she even got down from her room all the way here is a surprise, but before I begin asking questions, I carry her back to her room.
Couldn't she have gone to her mother's? I don't mind the disturbance, though. It's Skylar. If she can't sleep, she can'tsleep. I know little children like her prioritize things like sleep over anything, tantrums or otherwise.
"So, is anything really the matter?" I ask her.
She shakes her head=. In fact, it might even annoy her that she isn't getting the sleep that she needs. I check her bedside clock and see that it is some minutes to midnight. She has a lot of time until morning, and I can't stay with her till that time.
"Well, how about I read you a story?" I ask her. I'll read a story anyway, even if she says no.
She agrees, though, and I look for a book to read to her. The one I find is about a little lost dog and how the children involved can find the poor thing. Somehow, I go from reading the story to telling her about my experience with her mother, because of the frustration the fictitious children feel, and the one I am feeling right now, have a very strong connection.
"See, I just don't know why your mother is doing this. One minute she's with us, and the other she's not. I guess it's because she's busy, but she could at least tell us, don't you think?" I talk to the little girl like I'm talking to a person my age.
"Yep, and she doesn't take us to amusement parks," Skylar complains with me.
"I just want her to be fine, honestly. I want her to see me as a safe spot, a person she can lean on because she has nobody to do that for her. Is that too much to ask?" I take a seat on the rugged ground beside Skylar's bed and let off a heavy breath.
Why am I even telling her this?
"Maybe she needs some time out," Skylar says.
"Huh?"
