Where We Found Our Home by Natasha Bishop

 

Eddie

Your place is pitiful. You barely have any furniture. Are you trying to live modestly now? How cute.

Your house back East, before you stupidly moved in with your mother, had a lot more stuff, so if you tell me you’re a minimalist you’re a liar. Your mom’s house was full of pictures of you. There was one on the wall above the TV in the living room that always caught my eye. It was you and her on a balcony with trees behind you. You looked happy, whole, and blissfully unaware. But that’s not how I like you. I much prefer you battered and broken.

I bet when you took that picture you never imagined you’d go on to ruin my life one day. So selfish.

These security measures, if you want to call them that, that you put in place were a valiant effort. But really, a coffee table in front of the door? Was I supposed to bump into it to alert you to my presence? I’m nothing if not patient, Ciara. You should know this by now, and it’s really pathetic that you don’t. It was nothing to slide that shitty ass coffee table backward from the small slit in your door. Child’s play.

Your bedroom is slightly better than the rest of this place. Not much though. And look at you. You look uncomfortable. Your brow is furrowed. Your face is turned up in a scowl. You’re shivering. Is it me you’re dreaming about? You can’t even escape me when you sleep. How fitting.

The urge to reach out and touch you is strong. Just a whisper. But I resist. I can’t let you know I’m in town just yet. The games have just begun.

I’ll see you around, doll. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure to put the coffee table back where I found it.