Sweetheart

8

Lizzie
August 2020

Nightmares are the worst part of it all.

Every time I think I've overcome them, I find myself stuck in that room again, with that bottle in my hand and the raw scene before my scared eyes. But in my nightmares, the world is seeing me, and everyone knows what I've done. They know about my mistake, and they persecute me for it.

It's five in the morning when I jolt up in my bed, coated in something wet and sticky. No. I look down at my body breathing hard, gasping for air. I touch my arms, my legs. I let out a sigh of relief. Sweat.

The sun is just beginning to come up, so I toss my thin sheets away and get off the bed, stretching my body, feeling the soreness leave my bones with soft cracks.

I take a long shower, washing away the nightmare with steaming water. By the time I get out of the bathroom, all clean and warm, it's six. Jeez.

Deciding not to waste away the whole morning sitting in bed, staring at the ceiling, I make my way downstairs, careful not to wake anyone up. The lights are still off and every door is closed, meaning that they're all soundly asleep. Cool. I can make breakfast for them and maybe start something fancy for lunch since it's Sunday.

As I enter the empty kitchen, I make sure Grace's door is shut, so I don't bother her with the light. Then, quietly, I begin making some pancakes, omelets with cheese and ham, toast some bread, and prepare the coffee.

I eat one pancake and begin cleaning the table, spreading some flour on the surface. I'll eat the rest when someone wakes up, but now I want to make some homemade pasta for today's lunch.

My nanny used to be an old Italian woman with gray hair and thin skin that always reminded me of puff pastry. Since my parents were always working — often outside the country — she remained with me and taught me about her green and artistic country, making sure I learned about her culture and traditions. Mrs. Poloni is both a grandmother and a mother to me, and I love her dearly.

I start making the pasta, covering myself in white powder, and feeling my hands being all sticky. I opted for some spaghetti since they're easy and fun to make.

I have my back to the entrance to the kitchen, swaying my hips at the music in my ears, so I don't hear him approach. I jump at the small but definite tap on my shoulder.

Quickly, I turn around, taking an earphone out and coming face-to-face with a very thick, very long, and very hard chest. I could've described a whole other body part with those same three words... "Aaron," I breathe, thankful when he takes a step back. "Hi. Good morning."

I fumble with the wire of my earphones, but his eyes bore into me with that gleaming green. "It's seven-thirty in the morning," he starts, his voice hoarse even though he clearly got ready for the day before coming downstairs. He did not just roll out of bed, that's for sure. "Why are you awake?"

I know for a fact this isn't him being concerned or curious. Here's the translation to what he just said: Why the fuck are you already bothering me when this is the only time of the day I can be left alone. So, I shrug, because I don't owe him an answer, let alone an explanation.

His features harden. "It's Sunday. You should be asleep and enjoying the last few days of summer, Elizabeth," he complains, looking down at me from his six-foot-whatever God-like height.

I lean with my back against the edge of the table, looking up at him with my arms crossed. "Well, sorry, Aaron, but not everyone can sleep tight and soundly like you."

Something moves in his eyes — a shadow of the sorts — but it flies away before I can grasp it and study it. "What's with all the mess, sweetheart?" he changes the subject, taking a step inside the kitchen. I stay still, even though my body screams move.