“Come on,” she whines. “I wanna buy you a new dress, too.”
I feel like a faithless, sellout bastard for even agreeing to attend the party. “I don’t need a new dress. I have dresses.”
“I’ll kill you if you wear black,” she states, because she knows me.
I smile at the idea, but say nothing.
“Annabelle, I’m serious.”
I finally tell her I’ll go dress shopping with her one day next week, just to get her off my back—and off the phone.
I didn’t always dislike my mother, of course. Once upon a time we’d been closer. When I was little, we were even close, no r needed. When my father was alive and we were a family and everything was fine. Before I knew the atrocities of the world I’d been born into, before she married one of them.
Not anymore. Too much dama
ge has been done and I don’t even desire to resuscitate the relationship at this point.
She betrayed my father and ruined my life.
She’ll never admit she did.
We’re at an impasse.
The day passes in a fog. I get a lot done around the house early on, then I’m exhausted and I crash in the afternoon. I accomplish nothing more. I don’t put a pizza in the oven or consider calling to have one delivered. I don’t warm up chicken parm. I don’t do anything. I stay in bed, wrapped up in my blanket cocoon, because that’s the only safe place in the world.
I don’t even know if he’ll come home tonight. He probably won’t. Usually when we have a big blowout, he stays gone overnight. Well, if he has a girlfriend who will put up with that. The one he has now seems like a real dipshit; she’s put up with all of his crap—and my existence—for a year now. I can’t imagine a woman wanting him, let alone enough to deal with all that, but to each her own. As long as she does her job and keeps the bastard busy, she’s fine by me.
Apparently not, however, as come evening I hear his truck pull up. Either it’s getting louder or I’m dramatizing it in my head, but I’m pretty sure it’s getting louder. Probably needs fixing. I’d like to take it to someone legit, but it’s not in the budget, so I’ll tell him to take it to one of his chop shop guys.
“I know,” he’ll whine, like he’d already thought of it and arranged it and God, why did I have to be so overbearing?
“Ugh,” I mutter, already dreading his company and he’s not even through the front door.
Maybe I’ll leave. It’s not too cold out, and surely I could find something to do. I eye up my camera, sitting in the corner, abandoned. I used to love to go out and take photographs, but I don’t find much joy in it anymore, so it’s been a while since I’ve picked it up.
The thought makes me sad, so I curl up in my blankets.
I expect him to come in, but a long stretch passes and he doesn’t. I relax a little. The room remains still, unbothered by him. I can almost imagine he’s not here, except I can hear the television on in the living room—and I never have it on.
While he curls up on the couch alone, I curl up with my fantasies. Wild fantasies, like, wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could call the cops and report him? I wonder how long I would get to feel free before Pietro’s people would take me out and make it all go away, not wanting the cops to have a chance to talk to him.
Wilder fantasies. Liam floats into my head, even though I’m sober. I imagine him kidnapping me, because, I don’t know, I discovered whatever the hell they were doing at the old shop. He doesn’t want to hurt me though. Neither does Raj, he just doesn’t know what to do with me. Liam volunteers to keep me with him until they can trust that I’m on their side. Sexy times ensue.
I sigh, my hand lazily moving across my breast. I’d like to get myself off, but I won’t take the chance with Paul in the house.
No one’s going to kidnap me away from the stupid lout.
I can’t call the police.
I’m trapped, and there’s no way out, only ways to dig in deeper. My mom’s pissed she doesn’t have grandkids yet, but I imagine she’d be a shit grandmother anyway. On the surface she wouldn’t—she’d buy them presents and fuss over them to all her friends, but if it ever came down to it and they really needed her, she wouldn’t be there. That’s her way.
And, well, fuck that.
Bringing anyone into Pietro’s world is nothing short of a travesty anyway. We’re all pawns—meaningless, unloved pawns, and no one deserves to live like that.
Feeling worse than I did before, I can’t find the motivation to get out of bed. I do sort of have to pee, but I’m not convinced it’s worth it.
Instead I close my eyes and go to my safe place, free of thoughts if my subconscious is feeling particularly kind tonight.