Free The Alignment by Kay Camden Page B

optimism.
    The front door of the house slams. I get in my car, doubling over in pain as my stomach catches up with the hours I seemed free of the sickness. I don’t even care. I’m just not going to talk to him, ever. I’ll give him until Monday to figure a way out of this. If I’m still stuck here Tuesday, I’m going to the police.
    I start the engine and floor it, putting distance between my stomach and him as fast as possible.
    Walking into the clinic is like walking into another world where everything is bright and cheerful, where people talk pleasantly, laugh often, and smile for no real reason. I feel like an imposter trying to conform to some other dimension. People ask me questions and I answer, I fall into routine. I go out to lunch with Jennifer and Rachel, or at least my body does. The rest of me is still immersed in the disorder of Trey Bevan’s world. I ask around offering to work someone’s weekend shift, but no one accepts.
    Driving home, I wonder what could be stopping me from going to the police. I could drive to the station right now, ask for a chaperone, and go home to my own bed. Instead I pick up some groceries and drive straight back to my prison in some hypnotic coma.
    There’s no sign of him or his truck when I arrive. I park and turn off the car. I don’t know how I didn’t notice the note stuck under my wiper blade. I open the door and pluck out the note.
     
    Liv,
    Front yard is clear. It’s safe to go straight inside.
    Trey
     
    I feel like I just won the lottery.
    The hearty aroma of food hits me as soon as I step inside. As savory as it smells, I refuse to eat anything he cooks, and I’m sticking to it this time. I check the kitchen anyway and find a crock pot full of thick stew. Steam rises when I open the lid, carrying the tang of tomato, carrot, onion, black pepper. A clean bowl, spoon, and ladle are set out beside it.
    Damn him and his stew. His teeming vegetable garden. His soothing herbal bath soak. If this domestic shit gets any more profound I might have a problem. Funny that I’m okay with the blood-sprayed kitchen wall but if he starts making scented candles and potpourri I’m out of here. The ingredients for a cold sandwich in my grocery bag are no match for this home-cooked meal, but I willfully throw one together, resisting the seduction of the stew by trying not to breathe in.
    I return to my bedroom, yanking my duffle bag along with me. I shove bites of my sandwich into my mouth, barely chewing. Yes I’m stubborn, and proud of it. I put my hands to work unpacking the contents of my bag, a collection of random things from the house—books, CDs, magazines, my mp3 player, miscellaneous clothes, and stuff from the bathroom. As I start organizing the room, something sticking out from under the bed catches my eye. On my knees, I pull out a piece of white gauze.
    Realization hits, forcing me to swallow a lump in my throat. Sometime during the night I woke up, determined to re-bandage my leg. I must have given up and gone back to sleep. But not before I removed my pants. This crucial memory was missing this morning, but now it’s there in full shaming color. A sickness burns in my stomach in a completely new way. Being wrong is one thing, but after accusing him of something like that, I can’t face him again. Any normal person would apologize, but it’s useless. Perhaps it’s better just to leave things the way they are. We aren’t ever going to get along.
    Boredom catches up to me when I find nothing else to busy myself with in this little room, even with his attempt to entertain me by bringing some of my things. It’s not fair I’m cooped up in here while he’s free to go where he pleases. And now I know he’s home because I can hear him out there, stomping and banging around like some rogue giraffe. Screw him. If he wants to keep me here I’m going to make it as difficult for him as it is for me.
    I change out of my scrubs, grab my nail kit and go into the