Page 85 of Tempest

Tempest bends to collect his soiled clothes, steals one of our laundry tote bags, and disappears out of the bathroom. Through the beating spray, I hear the door click shut.

Depleted and more than a little weighed down with disappointment, I shut off the tap and step out. It’s then that clarity decides to dissipate my rebellious cloud, pointing out all the things that could drive Tempest away.

The row of medications on the vanity.

His sister’s clothes, books, and childhood stuffed animals tossed onto her unmade bed.

Hermione, a reminder of the sacrifice he didn’t make, lolling around in the middle of the room, watching our entire show while plotting world domination with benign, golden eyes.

If Tempest killed her, I might’ve left TFU.

He didn’t. He slept with me instead. Decided upon cruelty mixed with tenderness when taking my body for himself.

Because of that, we’re both left clueless about what to do next.

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