Page 53 of Redemption
It was a lie; I could always tell when he was lying. I looked at my phone. It was nearly evening. We had a lot of sleep to catch up on, and now we had. It felt good remembering last night's news: the Sinclairs had fucked off back to New York, and Sophia was safe.
I stood from the couch, staggering a little as the cool air hit my sweat-slick skin. Reaching for the bottle on the counter, ready to chase away the remnants of my nightmare.
“Don’t,” Damien said, reaching out to grab the bottle. He missed as I moved it out of his reach. “Too early for that.”
I looked at him incredulously. “It's the end of the day, nearly evening.” I walked away from him as I tipped it back and prepared myself for the warm burn, but only a drop coated my tongue. “Empty anyway.”
I tossed the bottle aside; it clattered against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I ran a hand through my hair and let out a deep sigh, my gaze drifting to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me—hollow eyes, sallow skin. I stared at myself for a moment longer before turning on the cold water tap. The icy shock chased away the remnants of the nightmare, brought me back into reality. When I looked at myself in the mirror again, I was back. The memory was neatly tucked away again.
“You good?” Damien asked as I went back to the living room.
“Yeah. Just needed to wake up.”
He nodded, emotionless.
“I’m going to go see Sophia.”
“Ok, I’ll be here. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
Sophia
Iscraped at a stubborn spot inside the oven. Whatever it was had been baked countless times and was as solid as a rock. I gave up and slammed the oven door shut. It was only noon, but I was exhausted, and Henry's house never looked better. I jumped and let out a little yelp when I turned around and saw Henry standing in the doorway, grinning his yellow-toothed grin at me.
“Sophia,” he drawled out my name like it was some kind of sweet dessert rather than a simple greeting. I narrowed my eyes at him, feigning a smile that couldn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Just finishing up some cleaning, Henry.”
He made his way into the room, plopping down on one of the chairs around the table.
“You don’t have to do all that, you know,” he said, his voice almost sounding sincere. Almost.
“I don’t mind,” I told him with as much honesty as I could muster. I could see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. He knew as well as I did that I had no choice but to do it.
Henry grunted in acknowledgment but said nothing more. His gaze had settled somewhere around my waist, and I tugged my shirt down self-consciously. His leering was becoming morefrequent and obvious. I could feel the weight of his stare, slimy and intrusive, crawling over my body.
"Alright," he breathed out finally, his voice a low grunt. "I'll just be in my office if you need anything."
I needed a shower. A boiling hot, cleansing shower that could wash away this grimy feeling. There was still so much to do, too much to do, but it would have to wait. I left all the cleaning supplies as they were and made my way up to my room.
Behind my closed door, I slid down onto the floor, my back pressed against the worn-out wooden surface. I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest, and stared at the far wall blankly where the easel held my finished painting of Gabriel.
His eyes looked back at me from the painting, their softness perfectly matching his that morning when he looked at me, betraying his chiseled features. I could still remember that day as if it were yesterday. It had been such a simple moment, yet it held such significance for me now. I walked over to the painting and felt the edge, it was dry now, ready to hang up.
I had chosen a canvas the same size as the painting on my wall, which held a simple nighttime scenery of a city I had painted when I first moved into the loft. I grabbed the old painting hanging on the wall, and lifted, but it didn’t budge. I tugged at it harder, yet it remained perfectly in place, somehow bound to the wall. I could have sworn the day I hung it up all those years ago that I had just balanced it on a random nail.
"Stupid thing," I muttered, tugging at it once more. But it remained as stubborn as ever, firmly anchored in its place. In that moment, I felt a strange kind of solidarity with the painting. Just like me, it was stuck.
Feet pounded up the stairs to my room, followed by a sharp knock. Henry's voice poured into the room through the thin door. “Sophia?” His voice rose in pitch as he nearly shouted.
“Henry? Is everything okay?” Silence.
“I..I was just wondering what you're up to,” he said nervously. For once, I was actually glad he was there. Well, not glad exactly, not even close actually, but I could use his help getting the painting down.
“You can come in."
The door slowly opened, revealing his discomforted face. “Are you alright? You look-”
“Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he said with wide eyes, then wiped his hands on his pants as he looked around the room. "Will you help me tear this old thing off the wall?” I pointed to the painting.
