Page 8 of Out of the Dark

"Umm, which ones would you recommend?"

"It depends. What kinds of books do you normally like?"

The question catches me off guard. What kindsdoI like? I don't even know. I've never had the luxury of developing preferences or favorites, simply grabbing what I could in the limited time I had and reading them at night after the rest of my family was asleep. My gaze drops as I shrug, unable to formulate an answer that wouldn't lead to more questions. It’s embarrassing that I can’t even answer a simple question.

Mark studies me for a moment, then reaches for one of the books. "Try this one. Let me know what you think."

I take it from him and examine the cover. It looks like something about magic—another massive no-no at home—but the swirling, nature-themed artwork immediately draws me in. My heart quickens at the thought of being able to read it openly, without having to hide it under my mattress or sacrifice sleep for it. It still feels like I’m breaking rules,internalizing the guilt even though I shouldn’t feel this way anymore.

While I'm lost in thought, Mark rummages through his desk drawers until he finds a notebook and pen. He hands these to me as well, and I clutch all three items to my chest like the precious treasures they are.

"Thank you," I say, already backing toward the door. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as the storm clears."

Before he can respond, I hurry back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. My heart is racing, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the thrill of holding a forbidden book, because even though I'm not under their control anymore, it stillfeelsforbidden. Or maybe it's just the lingering anxiety of being in a stranger's home and accepting his kindness when I've been taught that the outside world is full of nothing but danger and corruption.

But Mark doesn't seem dangerous. Intimidating, yes, but not in a threatening way. More like... protective? The way he scared off that man last night and the way he's offering shelter and food without asking for anything in return goes against everything I was taught about the "outside world." The worldly or secular people were not guided by God’s will, and therefore were inherently sinful. But nothing about Mark or the way he treats me feels wrong. In fact, it’s a welcome reprieve from the judgment I endured at home.

I settle onto the bed, crossing my legs beneath me and laying the book in my lap. I trace the raised letters of the title then flip it open to the first page.

This is another taste of what freedom feels like, I realize. The ability to read whatever I want, whenever I want. There’s no one looking over my shoulder, no one judging my choices or telling me I'm inviting evil into my heart.

I open the notebook next, the pages smooth and empty and full of possibility. I learned a long time ago that writing things down was the best way to sort through my thoughts, but I rarely dared to do so for fear of it being discovered. It happened once, when my mother found my diary when I was still young—maybe eleven or twelve years old. In it, I had detailed my frustration with my father’s anger and my mother’s refusal to stand up to him, along with my wishes that everyone would actually follow the teachings they preached.

My mom had lectured me in a harsh whisper, telling me to stop being ungrateful for my family but keeping her voice down lest Dad hear, because we both know that if he would have found it, the punishment would be ten times worse.

So, I learned early on to be careful what I committed to paper, because it could be used as evidence of my wavering faith or curious nature, both of which would result in punishment.

But now, I can write anything. I can writeallof it, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

The sound of the wind whistling outside draws my attention to the window. The snow whirls in the harsh wind, obscuring the city from view.

I open the book Mark gave me and begin to read. The words draw me in immediately, painting pictures of a world so different from anything I've known. A world where magic exists, where people can choose their own destinies, where good and evil aren't as simple as I was taught.

Hours pass as I read, and I only look up when I hear movement in the apartment. Mark must be getting ready for bed. The thought makes me slightly nervous, reminding me that I’m sleeping in a strange man's home, but something tells me I'm safer here than I was in my car.

I set the book aside and change into my pajamas then slip under the covers of the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. The notebook and pen sit on the nightstand, still blank, but my mind is already spinning with ideas of what I’ll write in it tomorrow.

I lie awake despite the luxurious comfort of the bed, realizing that for the first time in a long time, it’s not worry keeping me awake; it’s hope.

CHAPTER SIX

MARK

She's been locked in that room all day.

I've checked my phone at least a dozen times, debating whether I should text and ask if she's okay, but that feels weird. I don't want to come across as overbearing when I'm just trying to make sure she's alive in there, but I also don’t want to just knock on her door—that feels even more invasive.

The only proof of life I've gotten was the sound of the shower running this morning and her soft footsteps afterward. Since then, silence. Not even music playing in the background.

Did I say something wrong or do something to make her uncomfortable? I know I come across as a bit rough and intimidating, but I’ve made it a point to be on my best behavior.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Why the hell do I even care? She's a stranger who needed help during a storm. That's it. I gave her somewhere warm to stay, and she doesn'towe me conversation or company.

It’s just confusing. She didn’t even come out for lunch, and I don’t like the thought that she might still be afraid of me.

This is why I don’t do relationships—other people are so hard to read, and it makes me fixate on how I’m acting and how I come across. It’s annoying as fuck. Not that Claire and I have a relationship, obviously, but the point still stands. Even having someone—particularly a woman—in my home apparently has the same effect on me.

Still, as I stand in my kitchen trying to decide what to make for dinner, I can't help but wonder if she's hungry. She’s been in there since dinner last night. She has to be hungry, right?

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