The next few months melted together. The seasons varied so little in southern Louisiana it was hard to tell what time of year we were in at any given moment. I hardly left the house or checked my phone so the dates flew by rapidly.
Some days I would take walks around my neighborhood while he was at work or out of the country. Occasionally, I would take the street car or Uber somewhere, maybe buy some groceries or clothing at one of the little stores. I was still getting orders to the house every now and then, but once he stopped bringing me into events abroad, I allowed myself to venture around the city more. I knew it was almost impossible that he would find me while so far away, but I still kept my face hidden when I went out.
Not only did I not know where he was now, I had no idea what he was saying about me. I'd been gone a few months so I wondered if his clients ever mentioned me. Now that I was outside their circle, I hadn't a clue what they knew about me. It's disturbing when your image is reliant on someone else's memory of you. I was losing control of my narrative and I didn't know how to get it back.
I started dodging calls and deleting social medias, trying to leave off on a good note. I didn't want anyone to know I shared a life with him, however distant it may be. Rena and I would have short, strained conversations over the phone, during which I insisted on talking about her news only.
If she asked about me, I'd show her a new painting of mine or a story I was writing, but I never mentioned him or the incident or my domestic captivity. I would send her pictures of meals I cooked along with the recipes. She knew I had a roof over my head, plenty of food, and the right to leave my house. Most of the time.
So it could be worse.
