27. Chapter 27 #2
The atrocious sound makes me wince as I reach for the faucet and crank it to the right. In the corners of my eyes, flashes bloom again, flickering when the obnoxious cawing screeches again.
"W...what the fuck is that!"
Out of the shower, I nearly slip when water sleuths off of me onto the floor.
Barely catching myself, I cup my hands over my ears and stalk closer to the shrill.
Beside my meds and water sits the ugliest plastic chicken I’ve ever seen.
The timer, he really set out the most decrepit thing he could find.
Where did he even get this from, a house fire?
Finally, it stops abusing my ears and sits in silence.
It's mostly orange, I guess, with some black tail feathers and what used to be green grass.
The beak is worn down like a child used it for sidewalk chalk eons ago, paint is missing from overused numbers, and it's half melted.
It needs to be retired to the trash can, honestly.
The abomination must be my cue to take the pill.
Carefully, like it’s a snake, I look it over.
I don't know which medication it is, but I don't care.
Then toss it into my mouth, chew, and down the near shot-sized bit of water before a chemically-sour taste stains my tastebuds.
Guess I'll change and try to look like a human instead of a bridge troll.
I must have been out for a long-ass time, because when I step out of my room, Elias’s shit is everywhere.
His jacket, go-bag, laptop, charger, notebook with a stack of files sit in the middle of the kitchen island along with one of my glasses—sticky from whiskey I know I didn't buy. nearby, and one of my glasses—sticky from whiskey I know I didn't buy--.
I bet there’s some good shit on there—his laptop and in the files, specifically. I can only imagine the type of people he protects and works around. We never really talk about it—I mean, why would we? Every conversation has been about me.
My heart squeezes with guilt. There's so much I don't know about him when he likely has everything about my life memorized down to the shape of my fingerprints.
Who is he always talking to on the phone?
Where did he deploy to? What does he do when he's not babysitting me?
When does he go home to see people he cares about?
How does he get to and from the West Coast so fast? Why doesn't he talk to me?
You know why.
A knot locks its way around my throat as tears sting my eyes.
Because I'm self-centered and think of no one but myself. He has no reason to share his life with me when I'm a job. That's all I was in the past, and keeping me whole is all I am now. I'm just the case that never ends and keeps his pockets full.
Is...is that why he's always here? Sure...surely not. My dad can't be paying him still, can he? Do they not want me so fucking bad that they hire someone to police me?!
I think I'm going to be sick, but I need to know.
Taking his seat, my fingers get to work waking his computer up.
Color me shocked when it illuminates and there's a photo of his work logo as the backdrop.
What strikes me as odd is the missing password.
Does this man not have sensitive information sitting on this damn thing?
I mean, if he cared that much, the files wouldn't be on the island next to it.
Irrelevant, Sadie, get with it.
Okay, okay.
I click on the web browser first and immediately hit the history to see what sites he visits most often.
Mostly email, demographic websites, travel information, gun stores, and banking.
Don't think I'll be getting into any of them—lack of hacking skills, unfortunately.
Next up are his photo albums, nothing interesting there either.
Screenshots of receipts, contacts, maps, file downloads that he put in the wrong place.
When I find nothing of use, I move on to the next folder: documents, videos, cases, receipts & expenses. His apps are useless too: video watcher, live streaming service, banking, clock, calendar, notes, and one that looks like a webcam icon from the mid 2000's.
And that's the one I click. Who the hell has an old ass icon like it on their laptop anyway?
A window fills the screen and invisible fists send my stomach surging back towards my spine.
My apartment.
MY....APARTMENT.
Every room, every fucking inch is covered in surveillance.
When the hell did he do this? Clicking on each feed, there's a slight delay between the time listed on the taskbar and the one mentioned in the recording.
Exiting it, I move to the next until I see myself sitting at his laptop from the right.
I watch closely as I lag by a few seconds. Looking over my shoulder, I try to find the camera but it’s tucked away or I’m blind. Back at the screen I see the delay again.
Anger, betrayal, and disgust swarm me in one sharp breath.
He’s watched me this whole time. I've never been on my fucking own. It was all an illusion. A lie. The appearance of free will and independence is an exaggeration I fell for.
To the left of the feeds sits a folder with saved recordings I'm too afraid to look at. What if my demons are on there in real time, or ... oh God, what if we're on there fucking, and he's had them saved!
Slamming the screen down, I grab his files. On every tab is a random name my eyes are too tear-filled to read clearly: Braithwright, Denton, Nottingham, Carver, Wilson. I stare at the last one.
Please don't tell me...
Slapping it on the counter, I jump from the seat and back away from the mine about to obliterate me.
Thoughtless, I’m around the island yanking the fridge open and on the hunt for something to cool me down.
My insides are boiling—spoon feeding rage directly into Kate's gnashing mouth as she prances around inside of my head. This...this is what she's for. To protect me. She's done unforgivable shit, but she's never worn a mask and lied about what she is.
It took a demon to show me what truth looks like. And fuck if it’s not killing me.
The only thing I find, because he's out shopping, is his damn whiskey—it’ll do. Whatever it takes to wipe my fucking head clear of what I just discovered.
He was supposed to be different, but...but he's just like the rest, and I let him have pieces of me I'll never get back.
Unscrewing the cap, I put the glass rim to my lips and pull large gulps that force my throat to work through hearty swallows. Then another, and another, and another.
My lungs cry for air, but what good is air when you have to share it with liars?
Kate's at my back, reaching around to lift the bottle for me, holding me as we poison what we can’t kill.