Page 33 of Sweet Doe
She doesn’t speak, but I hear her footfalls slow slightly behind me.
“They said I was a danger to myself,” I go on, voice low. “Then to others. Put me on pills that made my skin crawl and strapped me to beds in rooms where the windows didn’t open.You’d be amazed what kind of paperwork your parents will sign when they’re embarrassed to be seen with you.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just lets me talk. I don’t do this often. Don’t share. Don’t explain. But something about the way she listens—quiet, focused, and without pity, makes it easier than it should be.
“My parents had an image to protect. Country club smiles. Perfect son. Alex was the golden boy with his varsity everything, straight-A’s, and charm. And me?” I snort. “I cried too loud when he got a new bike and I didn’t. I broke a plate when I was angry. Drew pictures with red crayon and called it blood. Normal kid shit. But in a house like that? They called it a warning sign.”
Her breath clouds the air beside me.
“They didn’t take me to therapy,” I say. “They took me to a priest. When that didn’t work, they packed me up and handed me off to people with white coats and clipboards. Alex stayed home, got a new phone and a family vacation. I got sedated and left in a locked room.”
“Jesus,” she mutters.
I keep walking. The snow squeaks beneath our boots this time.
“That place was hell. You scream, and no one comes. You cry, and they write it down like a symptom. Eventually, you go quiet—not because you’re calm, but because it doesn’t matter. You learn how to sit still. How to stare at nothing. How to disappear inside yourself.”
I pause, just long enough to let that settle.
“They left me in solitary for three months once. No windows. No clocks. Just me. I used to count the cracks in the wall to keep track of time. Carved poems into the plaster with my fingernails. Made up voices just to have someone to talk to.”
Sloan stays quiet, but I can feel her watching me.
“They did visit once, when I was about fourteen,” I add. “I can still see them now. How they stood behind the glass looking at me like a stranger despite the fact that I’m a spitting image of their precious prodigal son. An embarrassment. My mom cried. My dad just shook his head, wouldn’t even meet my eyes, and Alex? He fucking waved like I was behind a fucking aquarium wall and asked if I’d be home for his birthday. Clueless fucking idiot.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s when I realized love wasn’t enough. I didn’t want something soft. I wanted something permanent. Something undeniable. Something that couldn’t be taken away, or unchosen.”
She exhales slowly. “That’s what this is to you.”
I nod. “You’re not a hostage, Sloan. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
She doesn’t look away. Her expression is unreadable. Not disgust. Not sympathy. Just… understanding. And for me, that’s enough.
The snow keeps falling.
But for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like it’s burying me.
It feels like a clean slate.
For a second, she just stands there. The wind stirs her hair across her cheek. Her eyes gleam.
It happens so fast I don’t react in time. Her shoulders lurch. Her knees buckle. And then she’s throwing up in the snow.
“Shit.” I’m beside her in two seconds, one hand on her back, the other trying to catch her hair before it falls into the mess.
She chokes. Gags. Then vomits again, harder this time, her whole body shuddering as bile splatters against the powder.
“Easy,” I murmur, steadying her. “Breathe through it. Let it out, I’ve got you.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her glove, groaning softly. Her face is pale, lips chapped and trembling.
“Food… it’s not sitting right,” she mumbles. “Maybe the meat?—”
“No,” I say, a little too sharply. “Nothing wrong with the meat. I eat the same stuff.”
She shakes her head. “Then what?—”
