Page 10 of Out of the Dark

I chuckle. "Yes, I live alone, and no girlfriend. I don’t really do the whole relationship thing."

I can see the wheels in her head turning at my choice of phrasing, but I don’t offer up an explanation.

She takes another small bite of her grilled cheese by ripping off a bite-sized piece and popping it in her mouth. Everything she does is so careful and precise. Meanwhile, I’m dipping the sandwich with something close to reckless abandon.

"So," I say, still curious about so much but trying not to push her boundaries. "What were you writing about all day?"

She tenses and her eyes flick to mine with concern.

"You don't have to tell me," I assure her. "I was just curious."

"No, it's okay." She takes another bite before continuing. "Just thoughts and feelings, I guess. Writing things down helps me organize my mind a little better."

"That makes sense. And the book? What do you think so far?"

Her face lights up, and suddenly she's animated in a way I haven't seen before. "It'samazing. I've never read anything like it. The way the author describes magic, like it's this natural force in the world rather than something evil…" She trails off, that familiar embarrassment creeping back into her expression. "Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous."

"Don't apologize. It's good to be excited about things. And there are a lot of novels where magic is used for good as well as evil, or both. I’ll be happy to give you more like it once you finish that one." Seeing her show an emotion other than trepidation, shyness, or fear warms my heart in an entirely unfamiliar way, and it brings with it an odd sense of vulnerability. I’m not sure I like it.

She gives me a small smile, and it makes me wonder what she’s like beneath the facade.

We finish eating in comfortable silence, and when she insists on doing the dishes again, I let her. As I watch her clean each plate and utensil, I find myself wondering again what kind of life she left behind. What kind of family makes their daughter feel guilty for reading fantasy novels? Or, even worse, makes her feel bad for talking about something that excites her?

But I don't ask. I may be curious, but I'm not cruel. Whatever she's running from, she'll tell me if and when she wants to, and I highly doubt she’ll want to spill her secrets considering I’m a stranger and she’ll be gone soon.

"I think I'm going to read a bit more before bed," she says when she's finished with the dishes. "Thank you again for dinner. And good conversation."

"Anytime. Let me know if you need anything."

She disappears back down the hallway, leaving me alone with my thoughts and questions. Her door clicks shut softly, and I wonder if I'll see her before tomorrow.

Probably not, but that's okay. She's safe, she's warm, and she has a book to read. Sometimes that's all anyone really needs.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CLAIRE

I stay cooped up in my bedroom for another full day, alternating between reading the book Mark loaned me and writing in the notebook. This is a turning point in my life, one that I’d like to keep a record of to look back on someday. So, for the better part of the last two days, I’ve sat here detailing my past, what I’m escaping from. I’ve cried about a hundred times as I’ve spilled my life onto the pages, describing everything I remember from my past—the good, the bad, and everything in between. I never realized how much some of these things have affected me until I think back to them through a critical lens. Each word I write carries the weight of memories I've tried so hard to forget or justify. It’s only now I’m seeing how unjustifiable, even cruel, some of those things were.

I've filled fifteen pages already, detailing not just the arranged marriage I narrowly escaped, but everything that ledup to it—the constant guilt, the demanded obedience, the perpetual fear of stepping out of line. In a world where God was supposed to be my savior, he felt more like a cruel dictator acting through my father and the other church elders. I know that says more about them than it does about God, but it still hurts. I was promised a love I’d never felt, yet I tried so hard to exemplify the dedicated daughter growing into a pious, compliant woman.

It was only a matter of time before the pressure broke me entirely.

My hand cramps, and I flex my fingers before setting the pen down and looking out the window. The storm has finally passed. It started as a sparkling blanket of snow, though it was pushed aside into a gray slush by the snow plows almost as quickly as it came. Still, Chicago looks different from up here, almost peaceful, though I know that illusion will shatter as soon as I venture back out into it.

My phone buzzes with a text from my boss, Jackson: "You're on the schedule for 4-close on Tuesday."

Reality crashes back in. I can't stay here forever, hiding in this comfortable room with a book and my thoughts. Mark has been incredibly generous, but I can tell he feels awkward having me here. I don’t blame him. I'm essentially a stray he picked up off the street.

The book he loaned me sits on the nightstand with a bookmark placed at page 247. I've been rationing it, trying to make it last, knowing that each page brings me closer to having to return it. It's silly how attached I've become to this simple object and these characters who feel more like real people than words on a page.

My stomach growls as the sky fades into darkness. Mark said I could help myself to anything in the kitchen, but I’vebeen eating breakfasts and lunches of the protein bars I’d had stashed in my car before this. Last night I did sneak into the kitchen after Mark had gone to bed and made myself a PB&J sandwich, and even though he had told me to help myself, it still felt wrong somehow. Like I don't deserve such kindness after what I've done.

Is this my self-imposed penance? Living off scraps even when abundance is offered freely? Old habits die hard, I suppose. Back home, any form of self-denial was seen as virtuous. The more you suffered, the closer to God you became.

I snort out a laugh at the thought. Joke’s on them—I’ve been suffering in the cold for three weeks and feel further from God than I ever have. But it’s liberating to know that there is life beyond what I was taught, that not everything is so black-and-white as I was led to believe. There’s a freedom in knowing that my life is my own and I serve no one but myself.

As if on cue, the faint smell of food wafts through the room, and for a moment I’m not sure if my hunger is causing me to imagine things. But no, there’s definitely something cooking out there.

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