Page 51 of Fallen Petal

Chapter 25

Petal

The sound of boiling water plays in the background as I slowly meander through the room, as far as the leash allows me to.

I can’t reach the windows or the door, but I can step close enough to snatch a glimpse of what lies behind them, a vague idea, if nothing more. It appears to be bright outside, much brighter than it was on the other side of the house.

“Is this where the ocean is?” I want to know, pointing at the thin drapes in front of me.

Jayson is standing a few feet away from me, next to the stove where he appears to be making pasta for us. He nods. “Yes.”

“Can I see it?” I ask, my heart jumping with excitement at the sheer notion of being able to see the ocean. “Could you open the drapes for me?”

“No.”

And as quickly as my excitement rose, it drops down to the floor with a heavy bang.

“Why not?” I press. “Why won’t you let me have a look outside?”

He sighs, his gaze trailing to the closed drapes as he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“It’s not about that.”

I furrow my eyebrows, trying to figure out what he’s saying.

But then I get it.

“It’s not about me looking outside,” I say. “It’s about someone else looking in. Right?”

He casts me a look, his eyebrows slightly raised when he suggests a nod.

“You’re afraid of someone finding me here,” I go on, keen to ride this wave of honesty. He may not be saying much, but at least he’s reacting to my questions and assumptions, guiding the way to some of the answers I crave.

Still, I speak carefully, trying not to overstep and chase him away—very similar to how I talked to the black-haired girl when she visited my room.

“Because no one is supposed to know I’m here,” I add, observing his reaction to my words. “No one does know that I’m here. Right?”

The crease that appears between his eyebrows is a warning, a warning not to overstep boundaries, a warning to remember my place.

So, I do.

I leave him be, turning away from him without waiting for a response that may never come or just result in me being told to shut it. Either option would be deficient.

I turn my back to him, letting my eyes wander through the room while my feet follow as far as I can. The leash is too short to allow for me to approach the seating area in the living room. I can only stand and look at it, taking in the clean interior, nothing but white and light gray, except for dark specks here and there, the coffee table and a small bookcase at the far end of the room. It’s pretty much empty, except for a handful of books that appear to be mostly non-fiction. I squint, stepping as close as possible to read their titles. Most of them appear to be non-fiction and concerning themselves with the human mind.

“You’re a psychologist,” I presume. It’s not a question, because I don’t expect him to give me an answer. But I’m still curious to see if he reacts to this statement in any way.

A few moments of silence pass and I hear nothing but his rummaging around the stove, stirring the pasta as if it was a matter of utmost importance that required all of his focus.

Just as I’m ready to accept the fact that he won’t deign me with a response, he clears his throat and looks at me.

“Some people call me that,” he says.

“Some?” I probe. “What do others call you?”

I’ve gotten my way with this kind of phrasing before, and from the looks of it, it works this time as well. A sinister smile beams on his face when replies.

“A monster.”

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