Chapter 4
Abraham's POV
My existence has become a battle of routine. Mundane. Predictable. Boring.
I considered leaving. Once. But this town is all I’ve known. It’s where my family is from and is now buried. Where I was raised. But now I’m here all alone.
Excuse me? The voice scoffs in my right ear.
“You and me, old friend,” I whisper fondly, the familiar voice a constant companion since I was seventeen. Back when all I wanted was to be loved like any child should have been.
I know for a fact that no one else can hear them. I, unfortunately, discovered that handy little fact after my parents thought I was possessed and locked me in a closet with a Bible until I “stopped” hearing them.
Clearly, I lied to them.
I run my fingers through the graying brown strands, and sigh heavily as I open my little bookstore, wondering if anyone will bother to stop in.
Returning to my small kitchen behind the shop, I flip on my kettle, and then I move through the next few shelves on my list to dust. There’s too many to do all at once, so I’ve divided the store into sections; each day I dust and sort the section.
Routine is the ail to boredom.
Patience, you know I have plans.
“For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future,” I repeat the verse on autopilot; my father’s training impossible to forget.
The hollow words that were once held in high regard no longer have any power over me; leaving me with nothing.
The voice groans loudly in my right ear. Have I not have freed you from that life, given you power and strength? they growl lightly.
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling properly chastised yet still devoid of any real purpose. “You still haven’t shared your so-called plans with me.”
No need. I will take care of you. You won’t be alone for long.
I pause my dusting, standing up straight and turning to glance to my right, as if I can see them. A knot lodges itself in my chest, a warning I always seem to ignore when it comes to them. However, their tone makes me wonder what exactly they have planned.
Trust me, it purrs. Humans are simple. A whisper here. A whisper there. Like putty beneath my claws.
“What have you done?”
The beep of my kettle, letting me know the water is hot, draws my attention away from the fact that they don’t answer my question. Which is not that absurd. They rarely keep me included on what it is they do. But I do trust them. They haven’t steered me wrong. Yet.
A bell ringing alerts me that someone has entered the store, my first customer of the day.
A pair of pretty blue eyes that hide more pain than a man his age should have to deal with.
A shy and sweet smile that gives away his boyish excitement and sharp wit.
They flash before my eyes, but I stamp them down to try not to get my hopes up.
Vile, my father’s words from my childhood have me tripping over my feet. Repulsive, wayward sinner.
I manage to catch myself and force myself upright. Anxiety of repeated transgressions clogs my throat and threatens to do me in. Until hissing in my right ear has a maniacal laugh erupting from my lips.
Somehow, I pull myself together enough to do my job.
I remind myself that he is just a customer, and a friend who visits my shop just to chat.
However, when I enter back into the shop, my heart leaps into my throat as the man who owns my dreams stands before me.
A beacon of hope shining through my boring routine.