Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“It’s fine, Mom. Really.”
“So you feel like the antidepressants are working?”
A knot twists in my chest. I hate talking about this.
It reminds me of my pain. It reminds me of how bad things got. And it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me. I know Mom doesn’t feel that way, but I can’t help it.
“Yeah, they’re fine,” I force out when she says, “Oh, she’s calling.”
Great timing, since I didn’t want to go down this route with Mom.
“I’m glad you’re still feeling better,” she adds. “Make sure you call me if you need anything. Now go make that stroganoff, and I’ll pretend I can smell it from here.”
I laugh. “When you get back, I’ll make a special meal…you can name the dish. It’ll be your treat for being far too good a daughter.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, and tell Dad I love him too.”
“I will. Love you too.”
After I hang up, I finish putting away groceries before getting started on dinner. Then I get some chores done around the house before scrolling through social media on my iPad while watching TV on the big screen in the living room, an activity I don’t regret losing the rest of my evening to.
It’s around ten thirty when I head up to my room, where my phone is charging. At least, I thought it was. Fuck. I head downstairs and grab Mom’s charger from her office, and when I plug it in, I realize my cheap-ass one from Amazon must’ve stopped working.
Great start to my night.
I set the busted cord on my nightstand—figure I’ll see if I can exchange it on Amazon—before checking on Kyra.
“Hey, beautiful. How you holding up?” I ask her as I open the door to her cage.
On a jog the other day, I discovered the Rennings’ cat attacking a sparrow and, fortunately, managed to intervene before it was too late. My first stop was to animal rescue, where they checked her out, but already overcrowded with patients, they asked if I could watch her until her wings healed up, a task I was more than up for.
I assess her as I pour a spoonful of seed into her feeder.
“Oh, you’re doing much better,” I tell her, pleased she’s not nearly as anxiety ridden as when I’d first taken her in. Her feathers look full and healthy, and she seems to be in good spirits, bouncing onto the feeder to finish off the last of the seeds.
“Good girl,” I say as I inspect her left wing. The feathers are coming back in, but I figure it’ll take a week or two until they’re functional again—at least that’s what the vet and articles I checked online suggested.
I close the door and latch it. Then I strip out of my thermal and jeans and head into my en suite bathroom. I wash my hands before pulling open the top drawer under the sink, tensing up at the sight of the pills in the orange bottle. Seeing them reminds me of my struggles, but I can’t deny I’ve been feeling better since I switched to this new antidepressant two months ago.
I brush my teeth before hopping into the shower. The warm water splashes against my skin, soothing my muscles, relaxing me.
I grab the loofah and massage some liquid soap into it when I hear a loud thud.
Instinctively, I pull back the curtain, peeking into the bedroom.
Sounded like something might’ve fallen. But there’s this fear in the back of my mind telling me someone broke down the door.
It’s a ridiculous thought. We’ve lived in this house most of my life, and there’s maybe been a handful of burglaries in our neighborhood. But of course, when you hear a noise like that, are you really ever worried about it just being a burglar?
It’s only my overactive imagination, I tell myself. Some evolved trait to help my ancestors survive in the wild, but which doesn’t do much more than make me anxious tonight. Although, anxiety is a welcome relief since I’d rather feel the twist in my chest from anxiety than the hollowness of depression.
I wait in silence, and when I’m about to return to enjoying my shower, another sound comes from downstairs.
Fuck.
I won’t be able to finish my shower without imagining becoming the victim of a slasher-movie-worthy attack, so I turn off the water and grab my towel, drying off quickly. Tying the towel around my waist, I search around for something I could use as a weapon.
If I were downstairs, I could get the baseball bat from the front closet in the foyer. Or grab a knife from the kitchen. Or check to see if Mom still keeps pepper spray in her office drawer. But I make do with a can of disinfectant spray. As I step out of the bathroom, holding the spray out before me—noticing the floral print design across the can—I feel like a fucking moron. I expect I’m gonna search the house only to find an overturned plant or a book that’s fallen in the dining room, but my imagination tortures me with different scenarios, tailoring a horror movie where this scene could easily fit in.