Consumed » Kai Parker | Rewritten

Thirteen

The house is silent when I descend the stairs past noon. Kai is nowhere to be found or heard.

I rub my bare arms nervously, half-wishing I'd chosen a seasonally inappropriate sweater over a lavender crop top for this creepy iteration of May 10th. Goosebumps break out over my skin, as I near the kitchen. No clattering pots, sizzling frying pans, or whistling–nothing of Kai. I'd even taken my time in the shower after waking up abysmally late, without realizing I'd been at my most vulnerable state alone.

It doesn't matter either way, I try to drill the reminder into my brain, before I tumble into a vat of fear. You never saw Joshua. You weren't vulnerable then, and you aren't now.

Miraculously, I force myself into the kitchen. No Joshua in sight. Just a foil-wrapped plate and a note from his son on the dining table. My stomach grumbles with the impatience of morning hunger, but I pick up the note first.

Charlie,

We didn't have much to work with for dinner so I went to the store. Tried asking if you wanted to come and I think you told me to fuck off. Not even sure you were awake. I'm still impressed.

I'll be back in an hour. Enjoy the sandwich for your sailor's mouth.

- Joshua

(I'm just kidding it's Kai)

(Or is it...)

(Fine it really is Kai. I just realized you might legit think the sandwich is poisoned and I shudder at the thought of you trashing my food.)

Despite no one being around to witness it, my eye-roll is as instinctive as the slight smile that forms on my lips.

I unwrap the foil to find a Philly cheesesteak brandished on the plate and my mood skyrockets higher than the dread I'd harbored moments ago. Kai Parker, I can't, in good conscience, call you a saint, but this looks freaking heavenly.

It's a more unconventional morning meal than I'm used to, but I figure I'm allowed to break tiny conventions in a realm that inherently disregards time. So, I pour a glass of water, cart the plate to the living room and slide in a tape of The Bodyguard to erode the unsettling silence.

On an ordinary lazy day, the budding romance between Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner would be a more than sufficient occupation for my idle mind. But after finishing my sandwich, and mentally cursing Kai's ability to make a basic dish transcendent, I grow painfully restless. My foot taps the carpet repeatedly, while my eyes stray from the TV approximately every fifteen seconds to study the multiple entries into the living room. Anxiety roils in my stomach and Joshua plagues my thoughts, a dark shadow promising to follow me through every point of the day.

Sitting in one spot becomes uncomfortable to the point of my skin prickling with the paranoid sensation of being watched. I hurry to the kitchen to wash my plate, while tossing intermittent glances over my shoulder.

Then, when that task is done too soon and the only option left is to sit back on the sofa to devote my scattered mind to a movie, I head down the corridor instead.

The door to the study is ajar and I step in more cautiously than I had when Kai had been leaning on the frame of it a couple days ago, waiting for me to see what he'd been up to.

I gravitate to the methodical mess on the table, sitting in the chair that was already pushed out. Nudging away an empty bottle of Zima, I carefully go through the bookmarked pages in the closest grimoire–the Gemini's. It's the most heavily marked, but other leathery, worn spell-books and cohesive histories adorn the tabletop, with considerably fewer post-its folded neatly between their aged pages.