Before Him

Something bad is happening.

With a trembling hand, I throw my phone on the bed, feeling that it might somehow be the cause. But my hands are still shaking, and I feel like I might be sick as I press my palm over my lips. The violence with which my body shakes makes me feel as though I’ve been taken over bodily. Like this is all out of my control. I take a step back and press my palms to the wall behind me, keeping my eyes glued to the bedroom door. Roman is coming. He’ll make this go away. But the door looks so far away. And hazy, like a mirage. A prickle of unease slithers across my skin, like a premonition.

Something bad is coming.

Blood begins to thunder through my ears—thump, thump, thump—sweat gathering behind my knees and under the T-shirt sleeves. I’m hot. Burning. My cheeks feel like glowing coals and—

Everyone leaves. My voice resounds in my head. Everyone leaves me.

A tiny sob escapes from my chest, my palms sweaty as I slide down the wall, sinking to the floor. I hug my knees tightly and drop my head as my chest moves with a dry sob. The feeling, this sense of foreboding, it’s familiar, I realise. I’m that little girl in her steam-ironed dress and her shiny Mary Janes, standing in a place that smells funny. Looking at a man and wondering why won’t he love me.

She looks more like me than my real kids.

Not even that was enough to get my real father to stay or pay me any interest. No wonder my mother didn’t love me either.

She looks more like me than my real kids.

The ones who live with me in a proper home.

The ones I love.

People leave because I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve their love. Not Nana, not Roman, not Wilder. Oh, God. My son, my one source of pride and joy. He’ll leave me when he finds out what I’ve done. And he will find out because that’s what happens to people like me. People leave because I don’t deserve them. Because I’m a piece of shit person who isn’t worthy of their time. Of their love.

I pull my head into the neck of my T-shirt, my breathing now sharp and shallow. I want to cry, really cry, but I can’t catch my breath. Every inhale seems to take up a little more space.

“I. Can’t.”

My heart pounds faster and faster, harder and harder, the fist around my lungs now squeezing it.

You’re having a heart attack, crows a little voice in my head. This is what death feels like. You’re going to die, and no one will miss you.

My vision dims, the light closing in on itself to a pinprick. I screw my lids tight, desperately needing to take control, but there’s only darkness behind them. I screw them tighter, like when I was a kid, but there are no stars or splotches of colour behind my lids. No psychedelic kaleidoscope of colours, just blackness. Darkness. The sense of being alone.

You’ve always been alone, the voice whispers. Everyone leaves you because you deserve it.

A dry sob wracks my body because deep inside me, I know this is the truth.

* * *

ROMAN

“Kennedy?”

Everything tightens when I see she’s not in bed. She’s not in the bathroom because the door faces the stairwell, and it was open and empty when I came up. But then I see her, at least, the crown of her head from the other side of the bed. I shove the tray I’m carrying on the dresser, coffee spilling from the cups, china and glass clinking in protest as they’re shoved. I round the edge of the bed, sliding myself to the floor as I scoop her up, pressing her to my chest.

“What is it? Tell me, little love?” Her skin is the colour of spoiled milk, and her eyes are so wide, the pupils like pinpricks. “Is it bad news?” My mind immediately goes to Wilder, the fist around my heart loosening as she shakes her head. It’s a weird motion, a staccato shake as she begins to physically fight against me, pushing me away.

“I can’t—”

She tries to inhale, a jagged little sound followed by another and another, each intake shallower than its predecessor. It’s not tears because her eyes are dry. Dry and scared because she’s hyperventilating. Fuck. A panic attack, maybe? Does she suffer from anxiety? Fuck, whatever the cause, she’s exhaling more air than she’s bringing in.

“Kennedy?” Crooking my knuckle under her chin, I bring her head up. “Open your eyes for me.”

“I. Can’t—” Her fingers grasp my wrist, squeezing tightly as though hanging on to dear life.

“Don’t talk, just do this. Like you’re gonna blow out a candle.” I purse my lips together to demonstrate. “Yeah, that’s it. Now, breathe in—just through your nose. Nice and slow, we’re gonna count to five, real slow. One. Two. Three.” And on. “Now, out through your lips, nice and easy. One. Two. Three.” I drag the numbers out, and we repeat the process again and again.