The Attic

Chapter 16: Breakfast

A/N: I'm switching from past tense to present tense. Sorry if this throws anyone off (though I doubt it will; I'm just weirdly obsessed with grammar). I've been experimenting with the two to see which I'm more comfortable with, and it's present. At some point, I may go back and change everything to match, but not any time soon.

The next morning, I wake up alone in bed. No chain, no Adam. Just soft pillows and a comforting blanket. There are a few seconds where I really believe that I've dreamt up the past weeks in some sick nightmare. A moment surveying my surroundings brings me back. 

I jump out of bed and hurry to the door, only to find it locked from the outside. Of course, it's fucking locked. Because why wouldn't it be? How many doors in this house lock on both sides? Why can't I for once get a break? 

I search the room, not counting on finding a way out, but looking for something to do before I'm let out. As I comb through everything, I expect to notice some sinister meaning behind every item. Some psychological textbooks among his classics. No. A messed up how-to guide passed down from his parents. No. Mutilated animal parts? No, thankfully. 

While rummaging, I come across a framed photo. I pick it up, having to confirm to myself that I'm seeing it correctly. It's the photo taken from my room. I've known he was the one in my room, so why did it surprise me to find it here? 

A click from behind me startles me into setting it back where it came from. By the time I'm turned towards the door, Adam is already against the frame watching me with curiosity. 

"I—I'm sorry. I'm just... I didn't—I didn't mean to—to snoop. It's not—" 

"Don't worry about it, babe. It's cool. You have as much right to this stuff as I do." 

I nod, confused as hell, but unsure why. 

After a moment of silence, he taps his fingers against the wood and pushes himself backward. "The bathroom is yours. Mom went to the store, so it's just the two of us. I made pancakes, so hurry down, okay?" 

I make my way to the bathroom and use the toilet before washing my hands and picking my toothbrush out of the cup with the others. That's another minor thing I can't stand. In my home with my parents, we used dividers for cleanliness. No, we use them. I'm going back. I'm not staying here. 

I push the thought away as I finish brushing my teeth and washing my face. It was an honest slip-up. This isn't my home. I won't be here for much longer. It's not my fault. 

With nowhere else to try and go, I join him downstairs. The table is set, and Adam has both arms full of ingredients to put away. Without putting any of it down, he walks up and gives me a peck on the lips. "Go ahead and sit down. I'll be there as soon as I finish cleaning up." 

I sit where he asks with an absent nod. After everything is away, he sets a plate in front of me and takes the seat to my left. Thankfully, he doesn't try to make me talk. I don't know if I could handle it. My mind is reeling. This feels all too familiar. It shouldn't feel like a quiet morning breakfast. I shouldn't be comfortable. 

Half the food disappears in almost no time, and Adam sets his hand palm-up on the table in front of me. My eyes drift from his hand to his face as he stares me down with an eerie look trying to compel me to take his hand. I hesitate, but his glare makes me obey. 

He tightens the pressure around my hand the moment he has it and goes back to his plate. My stomach tightens and my appetite disappears. I push my food around my plate, unable to take another bite. 

A phone in the room over buzzes and Adam jumps out of his seat to find it. "That's probably Mom." 

As soon as he moves from the chair, the way to the front door opens. I want to go then and there, but I force myself to wait until he's out of the room. Once he's out of sight, I'm out of my chair, fumbling with the lock. It clicks—yes, finally—and I throw it open.