I waited {L.S}

1.3

Everything seemed so fragile now that I was back. The twins had no idea who I was. When they both saw me, they just stared at me while my mom explained to them that I was their older brother. Even after that, they didn't see me like they did Lottie and Fizzy.

Not that anyone blamed them. I blamed the man who took me, who still had control whether he was right there towering over me or not. Everyone was scared to do anything that would scare me, and it didn't take much to do so. Even just the twins playing too loudly could send me back into some kind of memory.

I hated it. Most of the time I stayed in my room with the door open so that they could see I was still here whenever they wanted. I didn't want to scare them with the door being closed. Plus, I wasn't ever allowed in a room by myself, and this was as close as I could get to that. I couldn't stay in the living room. Too many things happened at one time and it was too easy to overwhelm me.

I couldn't remember what my room looked like before I was taken. But now, the walls were a light blue, maybe they had always been. My bed was against the wall, so I could stare at it. The floor was carpet, which I liked because if I didn't have socks on, it wasn't cold like the concrete floor I slept on. I didn't look at the window above the clean, sorted out desk. I was afraid to get in trouble though my mom said I wouldn't. She didn't know what he was capable of.

From the sounds of things, my mom was going to sign me up for therapy, but I couldn't communicate. I tried and tried and tried to speak, but I could not force the sounds from my mouth.That's caused more than one breakdown, usually ending with me asleep in my mom's grip while she calmed me down from the sudden waves of emotion.

I heard them talking about whether it was just me trying to protect him, or if there was some medical reason I wasn't speaking. They didn't know I wasn't allowed to talk. Talking had made things worse.

I was barely eating. Only when one of my sisters pushed for me to eat, though. That's why I was starting at a plate of spaghetti, trying to convince myself it was going to be okay. It was okay to eat.

But it wasn't. I wasn't worth feeding everyday. He made that perfectly clear. And he knew exactly what he was talking about. I was a brat and ungrateful. I didn't deserve anything unless I honestly worked for it.

I set my fork down slowly, pretending that they weren't all watching me. I pulled at the sleeves of my hoodie, covering my fingertips, then continuing to play with the fabric. My thoughts were consuming me again, his face burned into my brain, staring at me with this utter look of disapproval.

"Louis," my mom sighed quietly. "You need to eat. It's okay."

I stood up and pushed my chair back, walking away. I couldn't deal with them begging me to eat again. They didn't get it. I couldn't just eat. I wasn't allowed to just eat. If he found out, he'd probably kill me. He'd hate the fact I was getting fat again. To him, I was almost there. To the ideal weight. I didn't know what it was exactly, but I knew I was under a hundred pounds.

I walked to my room and no one stopped me. I crawled to the middle of the bed and sat down, folding my legs underneath myself. I grabbed a pillow and clutched it to my chest, wanting to be comforted, but not knowing how to ask for it.

He would know. If I was good, he'd be nice. I missed when he was nice. That's the only thing I miss about him. Or I was pretty sure until I started thinking about it more. I knew I wasn't supposed to miss him. He hurt me, a lot.

But when I closed my eyes, all the bad stuff got pushed to the back of my head, and the better ones were in control. I remembered the first time I didn't fight back when he kissed me. Granted, he had locked me in a room for almost a week on end with no contact with anyone what so ever, so willingly kissing him to keep him happy seemed like nothing. I just wanted to get out of the small room by myself. Or when he would bring me small gifts.

I didn't know how I could cry as much as I had been. I thought getting out of there would be good, that I'd be happy, my family would be happy. Not that I'd be crying just as much because I wasn't what they expected. I wasn't happy. I hated that they weren't happy and it was my fault.

Instead of being happy, I cried in my room and slept all the time, just like I was there still, except I didn't have to worry about getting hurt here for any reason. I just had to worry about hurting them in ways I couldn't even control.

I was supposed to hate him. My mom did. She said she hated him for taking me away, for destroying me. But he didn't destroying me, right? He was just teaching me what was right and wrong. Why did I miss him? Why did I want him instead? I was supposed to want my mom to protect me, but every second of the day, I was worried that he was going to come back and lead me away.

The biggest thing that scared me; I didn't know if I'd fight him or not.