I don't know how long I'm going to have to wait for Baz. He's usually like clockwork, visiting as soon as the sun comes up. I glance out the window behind my bed. The sun is shining and the snow is glistening as far as the eye can see. He still hasn't told me where we are. He hasn't said much over the last few weeks. He's tight-lipped with information, but one thing is crystal clear-he's already as attached to this baby as I am. He doesn't need to say it, because he shows it whenever he's in my presence, touching my abdomen tenderly every chance he gets. Every chance I allow. As fucked up as this situation is-and it is completely fucked up-we still have some strange, underlying connection. A connection as undefinable now as it was before. I don't understand it, and I don't try to. It makes my head hurt, and my pain threshold is dangerously low as of late.
My stomach rumbles again, louder this time. Someone is impatient. Wonder where the little demon gets that from?
"Okay, jeez. You starve me for the last three weeks, and now you want to binge eat? Your daddy is having a psychotic episode. We need to proceed with caution."
I get up off the bed on shaky legs. "We'll try the door, but no promises." Baz hasn't been volatile the last few weeks, but that fucking insane look in his eyes is becoming more intense. It takes a lot to scare me, and he's effortlessly scaring the shit out of me.
I don't care so much about my life, cause really, what's that worth? Not much. It never has been. Born into nothing, ignored, neglected, harassed, raped, beaten, and turned into a killer, the world would be a much better place without a person like me in it. But the brand-new life inside of me has a fighting chance to be better. Gets to grace this world with a clean slate and maybe allow me to find some redemption, because I swear, this child will have a much better life than I ever had. A stellar, shining, happy life that will have no echoes of the darkness of mine.
I pad to the door in bare feet and the ratty T-shirt I've been living in the past three weeks. I turn the knob with little hope but am pleasantly surprised when it turns all the way. My stomach growls again as if it knows I'm that much closer to feeding it.
Cautiously, I make my way down the hall and down the stairs to the first floor. Once my naked feet hit the wood, I hear a muffled banging sound. What in the hell is that? I walk through the house, scouting for Baz. I call his name several times to alert him of my presence. I don't want him getting the wrong idea, misconstruing my wandering as an escape attempt or power move.
"Baz?" I call again as I slip through the living room and into the expansive kitchen. This is where the banging is the loudest. I peek out the window over the sink to find Baz with a massive axe in his hand standing over a bluntly cut tree trunk. He's cutting firewood. A lot of firewood. There are three piles taller than him. How long is he planning to keep me here? Until the second damn coming?
He really doesn't look good. His beard is long and straggly. His skin is sweaty and pale, and there are enormous dark circles under his eyes. I swear I could use them as a hammock. I know I shouldn't be concerned, but I am. Because the memory of the man I met in Colorado has continuously haunted me. He may be standing in front of me in body, but not in spirit, and definitely not in mind. I don't know who that person is outside. He's a shell, devoid of any tenderness or passion or emotion or charisma that was so abundant before.
Before Baz smashes the next log, he suddenly pauses, lifting his gaze to the window as if he senses me. Our eyes meet, and for a fleeting second, I worry he's going to freak out, finding me out of the room. Luckily, he doesn't storm the house like the beaches of Normandy. He just heaves as he stands there, axe in hand, gaze so fucking dark it makes my stomach drop, and my thighs sort of tingle. Deranged be damned, apparently, because it's clear I am still physically attracted to him. Highly attracted. How many more levels of fucked up can one person be?
I disappear from the window, wanting to find something to eat as quickly as possible before he decides to come inside. I don't want confrontation. Not on the first day I sort of feel human again.
I rummage through the cabinets and the refrigerator. It's slim pickings. Not the food choices. What is actually appetizing to me. I settle on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's quick, and the thought of it doesn't make me queasy.
I grab what I need and spread it out on the counter. My stomach grumbles so loud I swear it physically moves.
"Okay, okay, geez." I slap the organic slices of peanut buttered and jellied bread together and take a huge bite. I chew slowly, making sure whatever I put in my mouth isn't going to come shooting back up after I swallow.
All seems well. My stomach isn't protesting, so I take another bite. Then another and another. Before I know it, I've polished off the whole sandwich, and I feel . . . hungry. Still hungry. "Seriously?" I talk downwards. "I call it now, you're a boy."