Page 70 of Daughter of a Monster

I don’t know why it matters what this girl thinks of me. But it does. I hate it when she looks at me with disdain. I equally hate it when she looks at me with affection or longing and my heart races that little bit faster. But if I stay away, I know it will only starve my obsession, making it worse. But being around her also feeds it, making it worse.

I’m fucked.

I stare at the lock before sliding it across. Just that action alone makes me feel sick, knowing I’m guilty of being exactly who she accused me of being.

She’s lying with her back to me. The bed is shaking as though she’s crying. Placing the bowl of soup down on the bedside cabinet, I clear my throat.

Her eyes appear over the edge of the blanket. They are swimming in tears. Her breathing is ragged and desperate like she can’t draw in enough air and she’s curled on her side, clutching her stomach.

I reach for her but stop myself.

“Sometimes I just can’t stop them.” Her words are staggered between gulps of breath. “Sometimes counting isn’t enough.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I know a panic attack when I see one. Her breaths become more rapid and she cries out and folds over as though she’s been stabbed in the stomach.

“How can I help?” the words are torn from my throat.

“You can’t,” she says. She’s holding her hand to her chest now, the one padded with a bandage, as though it will help still the beating of her heart. Her breathing quickens. She starts to hyperventilate.

“I can’t breathe.” Her eyes are wide as they snap to mine. She sits up. “I can’t breathe.” Her gaze darts around the room as though looking for something to help. She presses herself against the headboard, her hands clutching at her throat, trying to remove an invisible restraint.

Climbing onto the bed, I straddle her as I grab her hands and lift them over her head, allowing her diaphragm the chance to inflate. I don’t know whether it helps or not but at least it’s a distraction.

“It’s okay.” I draw in a deep breath and she copies me, staring into my eyes as though her life depends on it. “See? You can breathe.” We inhale and exhale together and I count each exhale like I’ve seen her do before, only without the accompanying moves.

She blinks frantically, never taking her eyes off mine. Even now, while panic races through her body, while she looks at me with such desperation and need, all I want to do is pull her to me and press my lips against hers.

As we breathe in unison, I slowly lower our arms and wrap mine around her, pulling her close, spooning her and holding her tight to my chest as I keep counting. Eventually her breathing calms and her body relaxes. It confuses me how I can both terrify and comfort the girl.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

She turns in my arms, pressing her forehead to my chest. Her cheeks are flushed. She huddles into me like I’m the one who can keep her safe instead of the one putting her in danger.

“I think I’m better now.” Even as she says the words, her fingers press against my chest as though she’s scared I’m going to move away. “Sometimes, I can’t control them. I’m tired, that’s all. It just all got to be a little too much.”

“Do you have them often?”

She shakes her head and then says, “Yes. They just normally aren’t this bad. I can usually stop them.”

I curse myself for bringing this on her, for making her feel as though she had no choice but to run away.

She takes in a deep breath but it’s ragged and stilted. “I won’t do it again. I’ll stay here.”

I don’t say anything but I tighten my grip. She’s warm now, the heat of her body seeping into my bare skin. Goosebumps prickle at the vision of her tangled in my arms. She’s only wearing a t-shirt, the material flimsy under my fingers.

“Please don’t leave,” she whispers. Her breath dances over my flesh and ignites coils of lust. “Not yet. Just stay with me a while.”

So I do. I ignore the fact that her father is in the basement, that there are phone calls I need to make, people I need to talk to, things I need to set in motion and instead, I lie in bed, trapped by the plea of one girl.

I want to open my mouth and tell her everything. About Hope. About Ette. The truth about my mother. About my father. What I intended on doing with her, to her. I want to tell her every snippet of honesty in the hope that she’ll run again. And this time I wouldn’t stop her. I’d let her go because I don’t think I can take hurting her anymore.

“I should go and call a doctor.”

“There’s no need. Nothing is broken. It’s just a sprain.” Her voice is weary as though she’s barely awake.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I’m a dancer. I’ve had sprained ankles before.”

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