Show Me What Home Is

Chapter Four: Out of Love

Chapter Four: Out of Love

Jennifer's POV:

All he gave me was a grey T-shirt of his and a green pair of my own underwear. Thankfully, the shirt nearly comes to my knees.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Until then, come, sit, across from me." Michael takes a seat on the right side of the bed and crosses his legs Indian style.

I go to sit on the other side, but he gestures for me to sit in front of him instead.

I do so, sitting in the same position as him, but apparently it's still not to his liking because he grabs my knees, pulling me closer, making our legs only a foot apart.

He has the covers pulled back so that we're sitting on the soft white sheets.

He just stares at me.

I stare back cautiously, "What do you want me to say?"

"Just talk to me. Tell me who you are."

"Didn't you follow me? For like, half a year?" I hesitantly ask.

"I watched you, yes, but I couldn't see in here," he places his finger on my forehead, "or in here." then on my heart.

I hesitate, but I tell the truth on how I really feel, "How am I supposed to open up to someone I barely know? To someone who..." I taper off.

"Who what?"

"Who... you know. Took me." I try to put it lightly.

He just smiles, "Try."

What does he want to know? How I feel? How I think? This isn't a good idea but I don't want to make him mad.

Maybe he wants to know more about my family, about what's happened in my life. I don't want him to know that, but that is what I'll have to use to keep him distracted. I don't want him to know a damn thing about how I think or how I feel. Although I get the feeling he has a sixth sense for how people feel. I don't know why, but I just do.

"I was six. My father worked for the airline company, he was a pilot and was always gone a lot, but he made good money. One day he came home, stumbling, going on and on about how he got caught swigging out of a flask in the cockpit; he was fired immediately, or course. He went down hill after that. Then, Mom started in on the pills. She called it her "medicine", but by the time I was a few years older it didn't take long for me to catch on. It was her medicine to forget her shitty life, that's all it was.

"My father, he started hitting us both when I was seven. Started... using me, when I was eleven. My mom never knew, and I didn't want her to. She would get to where she would take too many pills and not realize what she was doing; she'd tell me about how she wanted to die, to kill herself and for everything to be over. I didn't want to make it worse for her, I mean, to an extent I did still love her. Even though she was a spineless coward." I let out a deep sigh.

"When did you start this?" He grabs my left hand, flipping my wrist up, where about nine scars still remain. He looks at me with a painful expression.

I try to pull my hand away, but he won't let me. "Please let me go, it's humiliating." I almost cry.

"Then why do you do it?" He asks, tracing, counting, studying the scars.

I didn't want to get into things like this.

"It's a stress reliever, now please let me go." I grit my teeth as a tear slides down my cheek. He gently lets go and I tuck both my hands under my armpits.