Page 79 of Overcast

I feellike a stranger in my own home. The vibe is off, my serenity is gone, and I feel unwelcome here. Stormi's shit-attitude has sucked all of my homey ambiance out, and it's thrown me into a shit mood.

It started last night after she slammed the door in my face, I tried to bring her food. And check her wounds. She hadn't eaten since the two bites she tried to chew at Reagan's breakfast.

In the morning, I made waffles and left them at the door.

They went untouched.

Lunch was similar, I knocked on the door this time, only to be answered with a silent "fuck off".

So I left it alone.

Dinner, breakfast, and lunch again, not a fucking thing.

So tonight, for dinner, I pound on the door, my irritation getting the best of me. My temper coming out to make another appearance when I shouldn't entertain it at all. I get that she wants to protest my help, pride, and all that shit, but if she wants to go back home, she's going to have to be alive to do that. Unless her plans were a little darker than what I expected.

"Stormi," I call out before my fist hits the door again. "You're going to have to eat."

And what do you know, more of that formidable quiet that I've become accustomed to.

I'm starting to wonder if that woman even goes to the bathroom because I have yet to hear her open that door. No squeaks from the floorboards with her weight. She's small, but she's not that small.

I’ve noticed.

"Stormi."

Nothing.

Not a fucking peep. It's driving me crazy, and it's taking every ounce of self-restraint to not lineback the shit out of the door.

I don't know how to make amends for these kinds of sins I've committed against her, but I'm trying. I've given her space. I've kept my TV down and walked around my cabin like I was walking in an episode of Indiana Jones's where arrows dart from within the walls.

I'm not letting myself off the hook, I do feel bad. I've put this chick through shit she'll possibly have nightmares about. I hurt her, threatened her life on more than one occasion, spoken some really fucking sick ass shit, and even let my real thoughts come to the surface.

And until I have more evidence, she’s now innocent until proven guilty.

Shit, she may be even more paranoid now and turn into a hermit that never leaves her house by the time she sits down and lets everything register.

Regardless, I've been watching endless games on ESPN and drinking beer like it's going out of style. My gaze periodically finding its way up the stairs to see if I can find her trying to sneak down the hallway but always find it empty.

She needs her bandage changed.

Fuck, her leg.

It's probably infected, and then she's really going to have to go to the hospital.

Jostling the door open like I’m partaking in a drug deal, I’m awarded with my narcotic of choice lately. Stormi sits upright in the middle of the bed, wearing the same tee from before with her chin dug into her chest. Her blonde hair curtains around her face and shoulders, blocking my full view of her.

It's possible because she hasn't eaten, but she looks smaller—weaker.

"Stormi," I repeat more softly as I approach the bed. Sluggishly, she pulls her head up, eyes bloodshot, and sweat masking her face like she just ran a 5k. "What the fuck."

I’m on her within a second, grabbing her clammy hand and resting the back of my palm along her forehead.

She’s fucking burning up.

“C’mon,” I urge, rearranging my arms to lift her off the bed. “We need to get you in the shower.”

She doesn't protest like I expect her to; instead, she goes limp as I carry her out of the bedroom and to the other side of the hallway.

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