His Possession

12: We need to talk

"I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded. I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe.

-Lionel Shriver, We Need To Talk About Kevin

***

"I'm surprised you managed to work out for that long," Nova remarks, her tone laced with amusement.

I watched her train, feeling the monotony of observing another person's routine. But somehow, a surge of energy pulsed through my body, compelling me to join her in her rigorous regimen.

"I'm offended," I reply, trying to keep the banter light. "Half an hour is a substantial amount of time for a workout."

Nova raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Only you, Skye."

Confused by her statement, I quickened my pace to catch up with her. "What do you mean by 'only me'?"

Ignoring my question, she abruptly announces, "I'm going to take a shower!" before dashing up the stairs to her room.

That sly girl, I think to myself, realising she deftly avoided my question. With a sigh, I head to my own room, keenly aware of my own post-workout odor. A refreshing shower is definitely in order.

In my modest sanctuary, I peel off my workout attire, feeling the damp fabric stick to my body. The cool rush of water against my skin beckons, promising to wash away the fatigue and invigorate my senses, refreshing both body and spirit.

Once under the cascading water, I quickly freshen up, letting the warm droplets wash away the sweat and fatigue. Time ceases to exist within the embrace of the shower's solace. Thoughts drift and dance in the vaporous mist, blending with the rhythmic pattern of water against tile. Here, in this tranquil interlude, my mind finds respite, allowing contemplation to weave its tapestry of musings.

Wrapping a towel around my body, I step out of the bathroom and into the walk-in closet. Feeling inclined towards comfort, I opt for a pair of black sweatpants and a matching hoodie. After all, what's more satisfying than donning cozy attire and indulging in some Netflix?

Leaving my damp hair to air dry, I make my way out of the closet, ready to sink into my bed and enjoy some well-deserved relaxation. But before I can even reach the comfort of the mattress, a knock resonates through my door. With an exasperated sigh, I approach the door, opening it to reveal my father.

He greets me with a small smile, and I reciprocate, widening the door to allow him inside. As I close the door behind him, I lean my forehead against the cool surface, anticipating the gravity of the impending conversation. Taking a deep breath, I turn around to face my father, knowing that the time has come to confront my fears.

"We need to talk," he states, his voice filled with a mix of solemnity and resolve.

I nod in acknowledgment and gesture towards the seating area in my room. "Have a seat," I offer, providing him with a space to settle.

His next words catch me off guard, "I'm sorry."

My confusion rises to the surface, and I can't help but question him, my voice laced with a tinge of frustration. "Why didn't you tell me they're alive? And how can you possibly know they're alive?"

"I can feel it," my dad replies simply, though his response fails to satisfy me.

"You expect me to believe that? You can feel it? That's a flimsy excuse," I retort, my disappointment evident.

Unfazed by my reaction, my father continues, "Your mother is my mate. When she dies, I can feel it. If she had passed away, I would have sensed it. But I haven't."