August McLaughlin In Her Shadow (epub)

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Her throat tightens like a flytrap.She leans forward and cups her hands over her mouth.“Claire-belle? What’s wrong?” Grandpa asks.She darts from the table, knocking her knee against the oak stand that held her great-grandmother’s vase.It falls to the floor, shattering.As she runs through the backyard fruit trees, the chilled air sends her tears streaming all over her face.Tree branches prick her skin.Dried leaves crunch beneath her feet like fragile skeletons.She runs and runs as though fleeing from something—or someone.The dizziness intensifies until she’s overwhelmed.Black spots fill her vision.She reaches for a tree for balance, but it’s too late.Her world goes black.Chapter EightShe continues her pretend-sleep, wondering what he’s up to.After another round with the blood machines, several hours if her estimation is right, he detached her and has remained at his desk, fixated on.something.His silence peaks her nerves.What she’d give for some sound—television, anything to keep her company.He’s not even playing his wretched music.She observes him at his desk, noting his attire—slacks, a dress shirt.Is he leaving for work? The notion should please her; she misses the days he departed often.But the multiple changes alarm her—his clothes, his extreme focus while he works at his desk, the fact that it must be daytime, yet he hasn’t forced her to eat.For years he’s forced food in her—without exception.She doesn’t want the calories, of course, but her mouth is dry like paper.Will she only receive blood from now on? Maybe that’s why he’s dressed for work; blood is in plentiful supply at the hospital.And what is he working on so diligently? Perhaps it’s all part of her treatment.In all the time she’s spent studying weight control, she now wishes she’d learned something about kidneys.To fill the time, she contemplates new strategies.She doesn’t have the same freedom she had when he allowed her upstairs, but she has something new: his frequent absence.He’s been on a mission, too, it seems—something that requires time spent away.And because of it, she’s gained a mirror.She took it on impulse after he left it on her bedside table yesterday then stashed it under her mattress.The thought pleases her.It’s nice to have something of her own.Plus, she’d gotten away with concealing it—a skill she was afraid she’d lost.Could a mirror help her escape? Perhaps not.But she must stay vigilant, ready for any opportunity.She imagines reaching for the mirror, smashing it into several pieces.Him, hovering over her from various angles.Her, reaching below for her self-concocted knife.A large glass shard in her hand, poised at his face, stomach or neck.Or maybe his eyes—end the gaze she loathes for good.If he lets her out again.Hopefully she would have enough strength—physically and emotionally—to follow through.If she manages to free herself from the basement she must be prepared to use whatever tools she can access in any necessary way.Once she steps out of this house, she will flee.She doesn’t know where she’ll go—how can she? She’s not even sure where she is.But those details are secondary.What matters most is her freedom.She’ll be gone, away, liberated like the birds in the sky and the deer that once led her to the cabin.She winces audibly as a sharp pain strikes her side.He rushes to her bedside; she must be more careful.“What’s wrong?” he asks, seeming more concerned than angry.“Nothing.I’m just thirsty.May I have some water?”As he walks to the freezer along the far wall, she has an idea.Quickly, she retrieves the mirror from beneath her bed, holds it so she can see his computer monitor.What is he looking at so intently?He returns—too quickly.She replaced the mirror just in time.He places an ice cube in her mouth.“You can have that for now.”Why an ice cube? It doesn’t matter.For now, she’s eager for hydration.She savors the frozen water as he checks her vitals, examining the images she glimpsed on his screen.They were pictures of a woman—not posed photos, certainly not portraits.They were snapshots, slices of life.A woman walking across the street, sitting at a table at a.restaurant? Standing in a group of people, holding food of some sort.She couldn’t see the face, but she’s fairly certain they all showed the same woman.If only she could examine them close up.Though innocent seeming, something bothers her about the photos, perhaps because they’re HIS pictures.Innocence isn’t his game [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Pokrewne