Read Online In Her Shadow by August McLaughlin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: August McLaughlin
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brands, the kind farmers use to mark cattle.
Once the potatoes are soft, he hands her a butter stick. She tries not to touch it as she slices a pat and drops it in. It melts into the mixture, tainting perfectly good potatoes with animal fat and calories. If she ponders the butter hard enough, she could probably vomit, without need for poison or her fingers.
Since he’s watching, she withstands her nausea.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“Just to start with.” She knew he wouldn’t let her skimp. She cuts another pat and drops it in. He stares harder; she adds more.
She pours heavy cream into the mixture, trying to imagine it’s skim, or better yet—water. But the density is a giveaway. She pretends it’s poison instead, imagines feeding it to him, watching him swallow, panic replacing his smile as he struggles to breathe.
“It looks lovely,” he says.
Shame spills over her like the fatty milk. His kind tone reminds her of another time, when he was good to her and they were happy—at least she thought they were. But that was many years ago, when bringing a mother home was a possibility. The outside air, visits to the city... They all seem like faded memories now, or maybe she dreamed them.
A lump forms in her throat. Is she supposed to love him? Does she? Is it wrong to wish him misery? To want to leave? She glances down at her bulging belly and remembers the pain. His body writhing on top of her No. What they share isn’t love. Perhaps it never was.
The timer buzzes. The meatloaf is done. Steam hits her face as she opens the oven door, the meaty smell adding to her revulsion. She retrieves the pan and sets it down quickly, wishing she could chuck it out the window.
“Do it again,” he says, “slower.”
She should’ve guessed.
She turns toward the oven so her rear faces him. He leans closer, watching. She bends until her head almost reaches the ground. The pink dress flutes out; he can see almost everything.
“Again,” he says.
She repeats the process. Again. Again. Again.
She tries to distance herself from what is happening, pretends she doesn’t care.
“Lower,” he says. “And wider.” She bends farther, sure she’ll topple from dizziness. She widens her stance until the open air chills her vagina. “Stay there.”
Braced in her position, she hears the familiar sound from behind. Fwap, fwap, fwap. For the moment she’s relieved. She’d rather he do the work with his hand than force her to do it. And she’s relieved she doesn’t have to watch.
The sound quickens, he groans then exhales. Finished. “Let’s eat.”
She carries the plates toward the dining room.
“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” he asks tersely.
Too bold. She was hoping he’d let her into another room. One step at a time, she reminds herself and walks to the kitchen table.
After she sits, he ties her ankles to the chair. The ropes seem to hurt more than last time. Probably because her ankles have grown even fatter during the months since.
“Take it off first,” he says. He removes his shirt then stands and unzips his pants. Then he watches her struggle with her dress—forbidden fruit he’s resisting.
He won’t resist for long, she realizes. That’s the unfortunate part.
Everything below her eyes is what she hates most—her body and food. Still, she tells herself, if you eat now, you can get away later. It’s her only path toward regaining control.
She takes bite after bite, fighting them down. To her, the meat is feces, the potatoes, piles of lard. Together they form a cancer that eats at her soul. Terminal. Malignant. She wouldn’t care if she died right now; how could Hell be worse?
After her last bite, she sits trembling, longing to vomit.
“Good girl,” he says and unties her. “You can clear the plates now.”
As she washes the dishes, she lets tears spill out. It’s the only release she can manage. She finishes, exhausted, hoping he’ll let her sleep.
He opens the
Once the potatoes are soft, he hands her a butter stick. She tries not to touch it as she slices a pat and drops it in. It melts into the mixture, tainting perfectly good potatoes with animal fat and calories. If she ponders the butter hard enough, she could probably vomit, without need for poison or her fingers.
Since he’s watching, she withstands her nausea.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“Just to start with.” She knew he wouldn’t let her skimp. She cuts another pat and drops it in. He stares harder; she adds more.
She pours heavy cream into the mixture, trying to imagine it’s skim, or better yet—water. But the density is a giveaway. She pretends it’s poison instead, imagines feeding it to him, watching him swallow, panic replacing his smile as he struggles to breathe.
“It looks lovely,” he says.
Shame spills over her like the fatty milk. His kind tone reminds her of another time, when he was good to her and they were happy—at least she thought they were. But that was many years ago, when bringing a mother home was a possibility. The outside air, visits to the city... They all seem like faded memories now, or maybe she dreamed them.
A lump forms in her throat. Is she supposed to love him? Does she? Is it wrong to wish him misery? To want to leave? She glances down at her bulging belly and remembers the pain. His body writhing on top of her No. What they share isn’t love. Perhaps it never was.
The timer buzzes. The meatloaf is done. Steam hits her face as she opens the oven door, the meaty smell adding to her revulsion. She retrieves the pan and sets it down quickly, wishing she could chuck it out the window.
“Do it again,” he says, “slower.”
She should’ve guessed.
She turns toward the oven so her rear faces him. He leans closer, watching. She bends until her head almost reaches the ground. The pink dress flutes out; he can see almost everything.
“Again,” he says.
She repeats the process. Again. Again. Again.
She tries to distance herself from what is happening, pretends she doesn’t care.
“Lower,” he says. “And wider.” She bends farther, sure she’ll topple from dizziness. She widens her stance until the open air chills her vagina. “Stay there.”
Braced in her position, she hears the familiar sound from behind. Fwap, fwap, fwap. For the moment she’s relieved. She’d rather he do the work with his hand than force her to do it. And she’s relieved she doesn’t have to watch.
The sound quickens, he groans then exhales. Finished. “Let’s eat.”
She carries the plates toward the dining room.
“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” he asks tersely.
Too bold. She was hoping he’d let her into another room. One step at a time, she reminds herself and walks to the kitchen table.
After she sits, he ties her ankles to the chair. The ropes seem to hurt more than last time. Probably because her ankles have grown even fatter during the months since.
“Take it off first,” he says. He removes his shirt then stands and unzips his pants. Then he watches her struggle with her dress—forbidden fruit he’s resisting.
He won’t resist for long, she realizes. That’s the unfortunate part.
Everything below her eyes is what she hates most—her body and food. Still, she tells herself, if you eat now, you can get away later. It’s her only path toward regaining control.
She takes bite after bite, fighting them down. To her, the meat is feces, the potatoes, piles of lard. Together they form a cancer that eats at her soul. Terminal. Malignant. She wouldn’t care if she died right now; how could Hell be worse?
After her last bite, she sits trembling, longing to vomit.
“Good girl,” he says and unties her. “You can clear the plates now.”
As she washes the dishes, she lets tears spill out. It’s the only release she can manage. She finishes, exhausted, hoping he’ll let her sleep.
He opens the
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