Page 85 of Pretty Broken Wings

I hear the men moving around, their low voices grumbling occasionally. I hear the grandfather clock chime every fifteen minutes.

The house doesn’t get quiet until around ten in the evening.

It’s the longest day of my life. I’m simultaneously tired and jacked up. The longer I wait for something bad to happen, the more pissed I get.

How dare they put me in this position? Howdarethey?

The clock goes off twice—once for each fifteen-minute interval, and I still haven’t heard movement.

I’m boiling over with rage. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. I want them to pay.

I’ve been turning an idea over in my head all evening. It’s a stupid idea, but it eases the rage inside me.

I have a way I can make them pay.

Finally, I can’t stand the silence any longer, so I grab the spray bottle I got from the grocery store and creep to the door. Opening it, I check the hallway. Gage’s door is closed. There’s one more door at the end of the hall. I assume it’s another bedroom. There’s no sound from it. Buddy follows me, and I thank whatever gods there are that the hallway is carpeted. Still, I want to shush her loud breathing.

There’s also no one in the living room.

A mixture of fear and victory turns my stomach.

I grip the bottle, pain tweaking through my hand. If Gage asked, I was going to tell him it was for my hair. But he didn’t ask.

When I move to the kitchen, Buddy huffs excitedly.

“Shhh,” I hush her, opening the fridge and getting out the milk. I pour it into the bottle while Buddy dances on my toes. She must think she’s getting a snack.

Then, I move to the living room—the living room full of carpets and plush couches. And I start spraying. I have to use my left hand because my right thumb is still out of operation, but I spray the misted milk over every soft surface I can find, including on the velvet curtains hanging over the big glass windows. When I’m done with that, I move to the kitchen again.

Buddy yips, going to her food bowl.

I stop and listen. The house stays quiet.

Slowly, I slide the freezer open and grab the bag of shrimp that I got from the store.

Is this petty? Yes. Butgod,it feels so good.

The curtain rods are too high for me to reach, so I have to carefully drag one of the ottomans over. Standing on that and on my tiptoes, I can just reach the end of the curtains. Gage has the rich-person curtain rods, the hollow ones with a fancy bulb screwed on at the end.

I unscrew it, then rip open the bag and start stuffing as many shrimp in as possible. Frozen shrimp juice drips off the edge of the curtain rod, and that just makes me want to laugh.

Slowly, the stress rolls off me in waves. I won’t be taken advantage of. I’m not a victim. Well, I guess technically I am, but I’m not helpless. I’m gonna get my money and get out. Then I’m going to leave the country. Or at least, maybe go somewhere remote like Alaska.

Fuck, Alaska? I don’t know if I can handle the dark winters…

Rustling plastic breaks me out of my thoughts. I glance down, and Buddy is rooting around inside the shrimp bag.

“No!” I jump down, yanking her head away. She still tries to wolf it down, and I have to wrestle the food away from her.

Good god.

I try to put the bag up on the top of the couch, but Buddy just jumps up to get it.

“No! Down,” I hiss, bringing the shrimp back to the freezer.

That’s when Buddy starts hacking. It’s a deep, throaty sound that echoes in the quiet and sends a shiver of fear through me.

“Are you okay?” I rush over. Buddy’s now vomiting onto the carpet.