The Don's Deadliest Obsession

After what feels like forever standing against the door without hearing anything, I finally move.

Slowly.

I turn the lock again, even though I know it’s already locked.

Then I look around my room.

My eyes land on the couch, i walk toward it, grip the back of the couch and pull.

It barely moves.

”Come on.”

I pull harder. The legs scrape against the floor with a horrible screech that makes me flinch.

I freeze.

I listen, when I don’t hear anything I continue.

Bit by bit, I drag the couch across the room until it’s directly in front of the door.

I push it closer, then closer still.

I stand back and stare at my pathetic barricade.

It’s not exactly a fortress but it makes me feel a little better.

At least if that bastard comes back, he’ll have to work for it.

I wipe my palms against my shorts.

They’re sweaty.

Everything about me feels wrong, especially my skin.

I can still feel his hands on me, i look down at my arms.

Nothing is there but I swear I can still feel his fingers. The way he held me against that wall as if I weighed nothing.

My stomach twists.

I walk toward the bed and the moment I sit down, my body seems to give up on me.

I sink into the mattress then I lie back, staring at the ceiling.

One minute passes.

Maybe ten, maybe an hour. I don’t know anymore. Time becomes meaningless as I just lie there.

My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to shut up.

I know I should take a shower, I need to. I can feel sweat drying against my skin, my hair is sticking to the back of my neck.

I should wash, I should get out of these clothes, I should scrub every trace of that man’s hands from my skin but I can’t make myself move. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Every time I even think about standing, my body refuses.

Because somewhere in my mind, getting into that shower means being alone with the memory and I’m not ready for that.

Not yet.

I close my eyes.

Immediately, the darkness changes, I’m not here anymore, I’m somewhere else.

Somewhere I haven’t allowed myself to think about in a very long time.

I can feel the same helplessness creeping up my spine. The same suffocating feeling, the same certainty that no matter how hard I fight, I won’t be strong enough.

My eyes snap open.

”No.”

I sit up.

My breathing has become shallow.

I shake my head.

Don’t. Don’t go there.

I refuse to go there, that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

I press both palms against my thighs.

I’m here. I’m in the Sanchez mansion, I’m in my room.

The door is locked, the couch is barricading it.

No one is touching me.

I’m safe. At least safer than I was then.

I repeat it silently.

I’m safe. He’s not here, he can’t find me here.

He won’t.

I swallow.

My fingers curling into the sheets.

”He’s a thing of my past.”

I say it aloud this time. My voice sounds small in the enormous room.

”He stays there.”

I breathe in slowly then out.

”He stays there.”

I have spent years making sure of that. Years convincing myself that whatever happened back then was over.

Finished and buried.

I refuse to dig it back up now.

Not here, not after everything I’ve already survived.

I lie back down and pull the blanket over myself even though I’m not cold.

My eyes burn but I don’t let myself cry, I don’t even know if I’m sad.

I’m angry, im shaken, I’m exhausted.

Maybe all three but beneath all of it is something I hate admitting.

Fear.

————

I stay in my room for the rest of the day.

I don’t leave. I stay behind the barricaded door and try to convince myself that I’m fine.

By the next day evening, however, my stomach has apparently decided it has had enough of my emotional crisis.

It growls so loudly that I actually glare down at it.

”Traitor.”

Another growl answers me.

I sigh.

Fine. I’m hungry, really hungry.

So when dinner time comes around, I finally force myself out of my room and head downstairs.

It takes all the remaining strength I have to push the couch away from the door.

I keep my steps steady.

My shoulders straight, my face blank as if spending an entire day hiding in my room because some psychopath nearly strangled me never happened, as if I haven’t spent the last twenty four hours thinking about his hands around my throat.

As if I haven’t been avoiding mirrors because I don’t want to see whether the marks are still there.

I reach the dining area and find Linda already moving around the kitchen.

She looks up the moment she notices me and her expression softens.

”Ah, child. You came down.”

”I’m starving.”

She gives me a small smile.

”Sit. I’ll serve you a plate.”

I nod and pull out a chair. I sit quietly at the table, listening to the faint clatter of plates and cutlery coming from the kitchen.

The smell of food reaches me.

Warm bread, roasted meat and something with herbs.

My stomach growls again and I close my eyes.

”Please have some dignity.”

It ignores me of course.

A voice comes from behind me.

”I thought I’d have to drag you down this evening.”

I freeze.

”You didn’t eat all day.”

It’s Lysander.

I turn to look at him.

Lysander is standing a few feet away, but he’s slightly bent over. His shoulders aren’t as straight as usual, and one side of his body seems more guarded than the other.

He’s still not fully healed from the stab wounds.

”I’m glad you survived.”

His eyes meet mine.

”I guess I did, thanks to you.”

I hold his gaze for a moment.

”That’s twice now.”

He gives me a faint, almost amused look.

”That’s twice what?”

”That I’ve saved you.”