Chapter Fourteen #2
“They’ve been worried about me,” I tell him.
“And they’re not wrong to worry, if I’m honest. From their point of view, I left the house in an emotional state, stopped answering my phone, then popped back up to tell them I’m halfway across the state and also, by the way, married.
” I wince. “They were probably a lot nicer than they should have been.”
His hand splays flat on my lower back, and I focus on it instead of the stinging in my nose.
“As a certified expert on all things Sarelia Elowen Prim, I interpret this to mean that they were worried in a big way and put the full burden of that worry directly on your shoulders. Yes?”
I frown. “The burden of the worry belongs on my shoulders. I’m the one who caused it.”
His fingertips dig into my back, then relax. “No.”
My eyebrows furrow. “No?”
“No. The worry of a parent should not ever fall under the responsibilities of the child. Their emotional regulation is never your burden to bear.”
“I’m an adult,” I remind him. “Not a child. And my actions have consequences for more than just me. It was selfish of me to not consider that.”
“I don’t mean child in the sense of youth.
I mean it in the relational sense. They are parent, and you are child.
There are inherent boundaries within that relationship which dictate that the weight of their negative emotions is their burden to bear, not yours.
You are not their friend, or their therapist, or their scapegoat for avoiding the hard work of feeling their feelings.
You are their daughter, their child, their gift.
And you should be treated as such regardless of how selfish or selfless you’re behaving.
And I want to make it abundantly clear that I do not believe that your behaviors can even be neatly tucked away under the umbrella of selfishness.
Leaving their home and coming to me is no more selfish than it is disrespectful.
Is it worrisome? Yes. Should you be punished for their worry, though?
As a grown woman capable of making her own informed decisions?
Absolutely not. We can and should appreciate the love and care behind their worry, but it is still their worry, which could be cleared up quite easily by trusting you. ”
The beating of my heart thuds in my head as my throat constricts. I force hoarse words through it when I say, “Were you a therapist in a past life or something?”
He snorts. “In this life, sort of. My sole patient is Heidi.”
Ah. “That makes sense. You’re very wise. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
His breath ruffles my hair. “I wasn’t always, but I went through a good deal of therapy after leaving my parents’ home.
They’re a lot like your parents. They love me, and they want the best for me, but we diverge on what that ‘best’ actually is.
I spent my late teens and early twenties learning how to navigate my relationship with them with love and boundaries. ”
“And now you pass on your wisdom to me.”
He kisses the top of my head. “And now I pass on my wisdom to you.”
I listen to his heart beat while I think about all he’s said. Knowing I am an intelligent, responsible, trustworthy adult is one thing. Having someone else confirm it is an entirely different thing—uncomfortable in the good way.
“Why two weeks?” I ask after an eternity or so of inner work on my part and cuddling on Archie’s.
“Hm?”
Scratch that, napping on Archie’s.
My eyes crinkle. “Why have my parents’ visit in two weeks? Why not sooner so we can get it over with?”
He yawns, pulling me fully on top of him. “We have to get rid of Ted first.”
“Ted?”
He hums, then grumbles, “Ted. The guy in the basement.”
A beat passes before I burst into laughter, not expecting jokes from a man who sounds like he wouldn’t be awake enough to even string his full name together.
Archie becomes very, very still.
“Sarelia?” he asks, much more awake.
“Yes?” I giggle, then snort.
He sits us up before answering, carefully placing the throw pillow back in my lap before scooting to the other side of the couch. He eyes the chair across the table.
My stomach drops. “Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “Was I hurting you?”
His eyes dart to mine, and my heart meets my stomach on the ground.
“Archie?” I whisper, uncertain. “Are you okay?”
“I fear I’ve made a mistake,” he answers. “And I do not quite know how to fix it.”
Has breathing always been this difficult? “A mistake… with me?”
“Yes,” he answers, knife to my heart.
“Oh,” I mutter. Well. That’s… to be expected, probably. Waking up and realizing I am not what he wants is probably the most logical outcome for this situation. Particularly right after getting a front-row seat to my deeply unwell relationship with my family.
My breath halts.
I… should leave. Right?
I should definitely leave.
I mean, me being here when he doesn’t want me to be makes no sense.
I can take the memories I’ve made and store them up in my heart for cold, lonesome nights back at home.
I’ll just leave out this one, teensy, tiny little pocket of time wherein Archie realises I am Too Much Work and ends our not-so-convenient marriage.
I will keep the memories that warm me, and throw the rest into the deep, dark abyss where they cannot haunt me every day until I die.
A foolproof plan that has zero issues and is totally enactable.
I map my exit plan while Archie stares at me, his hands clenching and unclenching as his breaths come rapid.
I’ve unpacked already, but I didn’t bring a lot.
Packing it back up would only take five minutes, tops.
I’d have to find a ride, somehow, but even out here they should have a ride service, right?
I can get one and find a café to sit at while I figure out a way home.
I have enough money to rent a car, if need be.
Or maybe I’ll pay the ride service a million dollars to drive me across the state so I can spend the hours sobbing.
Tears prick at my eyes, threatening to start the sobbing now, when I am nowhere near the safety of away from Archie’s sweet, perfect, way-too-good-for-me presence.
Archie jolts forward suddenly, framing my face with his hands and kissing me. His kiss is rough and quick and just on the edge of panic.
I have just enough presence of mind to kiss him back before he’s gone, across the couch again, hands tucked neatly in his lap.
“Ar-chie?”
He takes a deep breath, braces himself, then rips the Band-Aid off.
“I wasn’t telling a joke when I said that I torture monsters for fun and for my job.
Ted is an incredibly real, incredibly horrendous man I have lying strapped to a table in my basement as we speak.
Ted, and all of the men,” he spits the word, “that I work on do things—things much worse than anything I’ve ever been able to do to them—and they do these things to children.
Teenagers, sometimes. Women, sometimes. But primarily children.
We—my family here—we work to get these people out of commission.
Stryker takes a quicker, permanent approach usually, but for the ones who are…
particularly bad, he gives them to me, and he lets me play before he or Basil take away the leftovers and put an end to suffering I do not believe should have an end at all.
Typically, they take them in trade for a new monster for me to work on.
” He pauses, jaw working. “I’m sorry, Sarelia.
Not that I do this, but that I didn’t properly convey the nature of my work before our marriage.
I let my excitement lead me, not taking the time to make sure you understood what I was saying, and the seriousness of it, before moving forward in making you my wife.
” His hand lifts, then drops. “I apologize. I… whatever you wish to do going forward, I will honor.”