Torture to Her Soul
Page 2

I know.
Believe me, I know.
I watched love die right in front of me, gasping, struggling for just one more breath life wouldn't grant. I decided, at that moment, that I'd rather just die than feel that again.
But then she happened.
I pause in the doorway of the kitchen and casually lean against the wooden doorframe, watching as Karissa cooks. Or tries to cook is more like it. Oil splatters into the air from a pan on the stove, some chicken frying away, the outside of it blackened nearly beyond recognition. A pot in the back boils over, the burner hissing when the liquid hits it, as smoke rolls out from inside the oven.
"Shit, shit, shit," she chants, popping the pink earbuds out of her ears and draping them around her neck. Grabbing a set of potholders, she yanks open the door, trying to fan away the smoke. It quickly consumes the air around her the same time loud beeps start blaring through the room.
She casts an angry glare at the nearby smoke detector before pulling out a baking sheet and throwing it on the counter, spouting another string of curses at whatever it is. Biscuits, I assume, although they look like lumps of shit.
Appetizing.
I walk over and reach up, popping open the smoke detector and pulling out the battery so it'll stop making noise. Karissa glances at me, offering a timid half-smile in place of any words.
Words are a rare gift from her these days. She showered me with plenty of scathing ones before they dried up and we entered the drought stage.
I wait it out, but her silence is deafening.
Frustrating.
Downright torture some days.
She walks around here with those earbuds in her ears, music blaring as she blocks out the world. If she can't hear me, she can pretend I'm not here. If she can't hear me, she thinks I won't waste my breath trying to talk.
She turns back to the stove, to her burnt food. She's usually better than this, but something has her frazzled. I'm not sure what it is.
"Everything okay, Karissa?"
She clicks off both burners as she mutters, "just fucking wonderful."
My jaw clenches at her tone and I force myself not to react. I don't take to disrespect well, but she dishes it out some days like I'm starving for it.
Hell, maybe I am.
Maybe I deserve it.
But I don't like it.
At all.
Instead of pushing her for more of an answer, for a better answer, I just walk out, leaving her to salvage a dinner she knows I won't eat. She does this every day now, part of a routine she settled into this summer, a routine she doesn't often differ from anymore.
She's predictable, borderline robotic as she fights to keep her emotions from showing around me, like if she does the same things day in and day out, maybe I'll grow complacent and overlook her presence. Like maybe I'll forget about her. Like maybe it's the key to getting away. She doesn't realize that's how I catch people. They think they fade away in the bustle, when they stand out more to me that way.
She's distracting herself, with these disastrous dinners, these routines, but it doesn't keep her from thinking. From overthinking. Strained silence fuels the most morose thoughts. I know. Believe me, I know. And that just makes it all worse.
She's a ticking time bomb.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It's only a matter of time before I clip the wrong wire and she explodes.
Heading into the den, I take a seat at my desk and pull out my cell phone to call a nearby Chinese place. I order whatever the special is today and request some Beef Lo Mein without any of the vegetables, Karissa's favorite.
I can hear her moving around in the kitchen, banging cabinets and throwing things. I just lean back in my chair and listen to her chaos, absorbing the impact like it's made with her fists.
I didn't set out to love her.
I didn't even plan to like her.
But it happened... we happened... and I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with that.
The delivery guy shows up in less than thirty minutes. A new one every time, different places whenever I order out, so nobody can predict where I'm eating from that day. It's not fool proof, but it's certainly proven safer than eating something Karissa makes.
I pay for the food before curiously strolling toward the dining room. The light is off, but Karissa sits at the table alone. The glow filtering in from the kitchen shows me she has a plate in front of her. She shifts the food around with her fork, not eating it, as she once again has those earbuds in.
I'm not surprised.
Another part of her routine: she won't admit defeat.
Wordlessly, I pull out the carton of Beef Lo Mein and set it on the table beside her before I make my way back into the den, leaving her with a shred of dignity, letting her eat whatever she wants in peace.
Dealing with people.
Finding things.
My specialties.
I sit in the den, my feet propped up on my desk, leaning back in the leather office chair as I scarf down my dinner. My eyes are trained on the laptop, on the stock ticker scrolling along the screen. I have some of my money invested in various high-profile businesses, legitimate dealings that keep me off the government's radar, but my focus right now is on the little ones, the barely existing penny stocks nobody cares about.
Chop stocks, they call them.
You find one, invest, and con a bunch of others into putting their money in, convincing them it's the next big thing, and then as soon as the price skyrockets, you pull your money right back out. The stock will plummet, since it's shit, and everyone else loses out, but you walk away with a pretty profit thanks to the suckers.