Famished by Meghan O'Flynn (most popular novels txt) 📖

Radio silence. Then static, like a thousand locusts humming in my ears. The pillow was ripped from my hands, and someone screamed, the sound strangled and choked. It was me. It was always me.

I opened my eyes in the dark, panting, clutching at my chest, shirt balled in my fists, the panic hot and white, and unrelenting. Next to me, Jake snored softly, oblivious. I watched the covers rise rhythmically with his breath. A demonstration of his ability to not give a crap about anything.

I rolled away from him, onto my side, knees hugged tightly against my wildly hammering heart. The skin of my arms and legs was dewy with sweat. A scar on my ankle throbbed and stilled just as abruptly.

You’re not back there, Hannah. You’re here. You’re here.

But I wasn’t here, not all the way, not ever. Even on my best days, I could still hear him, my first love, my only hate, whispering in my ear, I’ll find you, you little whore. I could still smell him—the stink of sweat and some musky, dirty, vulgar thing lingering long after the nightmare, trying to choke me as I lay in the filmy pre-dawn gloom.

I raised my eyes and blinked back tears as the alarm clock swam into focus. Five-fifteen. Two and a half hours until I had to leave for work. Two and a half hours to get myself together and not be so fucked up, or at least find a way to act less obviously crazy. But acting was hard. Most days, I’d rather just disappear into the background. I fantasized about slipping from view, a lithe mass of dark hair, wide mouth and green eyes fading to a transparent whisper, then only the scenery behind, as if I had never existed. If I could force this disappearing, I would. Then maybe I could stop running.

I sucked in a deep breath, my heart expanding and jerking sharply like an agitated blowfish in my chest. Slowly, carefully, I dragged myself away from Jake to the edge of the bed, keeping my eyes on the door in case someone burst through it and grabbed me by the throat. At least Jake would wake up and help me, or I hoped he would; I was counting on him for that part. Probably the one thing I could count on him for. I hoped I was worthy of at least that much.

I swung my feet off the bed, toed around for the slippers below, and crept to the bedroom door, cringing against the chill on my clammy skin, alert for the slightest sound. Nothing.

Panic’s chokehold lessened to a subtle pressure. Jesus. If neurotic freaks ever ended up being cool, I’d be ready for the red carpet. I crept down the hallway toward the living room, pretending I was Scooby-Doo on the trail of a creepy amusement park owner. Silliness wasn’t the only way to chill out, but it was one way. And it worked. Sometimes.

Other times the panic ended up strangling me.

I paused in the hallway, listening, and flicked on the light. Shadowy, amorphous shapes solidified into a familiar scene: the couch, the table, a pack of Jake’s cigarettes. I scanned the apartment for the slightest movement. Nothing, not even behind the window curtain. No noise outside. A hint of Jake’s lingering cigarette smoke harassed my nostrils, and the dusky memories shivered away.

I checked the window lock anyway, snaking my hand behind the curtain and pulling it aside so I could poke at the tab with a trembling finger. Below me, the street was empty, the patch of frosty grass along the sidewalk glowing amber under the streetlight. I dropped the curtain, picked my way back through the living room, and groped the deadbolt on the front door. Locked.

My purse sat on the table. I pulled my phone out of it, and my heart seized and restarted as I tapped in my code. No creepy text messages. No threatening voicemails. Nothing.

I pushed my purse aside and jumped at the sound the strap made when it slid and hit the table. In the kitchen, the overhead light bounced off the refrigerator and cast a weird, flattened circle of light on the floor. I concentrated on it as I waited for my heart to shrink and drop out of my throat.

Cake. I should bake a cake. Because isn’t that where everyone’s mind goes after a horrible recurring nightmare and panicked lock-checking? But I was being practical. Now I wouldn’t have to stop at a bakery on my way from work to the women’s shelter, and Ms. LaPorte would get a nice birthday surprise. I still owed her. Probably would for the rest of my life.

I shuffled to the cabinets and carefully pulled out cake-making supplies. Once the mix was emptied into the bowl, I cracked the eggs and zoned out, there but not, baking on autopilot. People got over stuff, right? They left it behind them. Eventually, I would forget how the clasp on my duffel bag jangled as I ran for the bus station, chest heaving with sorrow and loneliness, and abject terror. Eventually, I would forget the way his calloused hands felt against my windpipe. I grabbed the whisk and attacked the mixture in the bowl. Each ingredient added brought the batter one step closer to something better, just like each day took me one step farther from where I had started. I wasn’t as delicious as cake, but I was surely an improvement on who I had been five years ago.

Ten minutes later, the cake was baking, and I was on my way to the shower. I got ready in the dark, easing drawers open and closed to avoid waking Jake. Unless I startled him, he wouldn’t be up until well after I was gone, and his first cigarette would kill any lingering vanilla in the air. Which was good, especially today. He had no idea where I went after work, and the cake would raise more questions than I ever wanted to answer.