light of my world, Renee. I’m not sure I could live without you, Renee.
That much I could remember as I lay on my white bed in the pink-and-white room. I also knew that I was in my early twenties.
That I was dressed in the same checkered pink flannel pajamas that I almost always wore. That the one man who loved me more
than I could possibly love myself would soon be home after a long day at work.
There were other things that I knew about myself. I was no longer addicted to heroin. I never went hungry or lacked anything
I needed to live comfortably.
The thought that I might have to run down an alleyway to escape brutal men no longer entered my mind. I was safe as long as
I stayed in the house. If I ventured out alone, I might not be so lucky.
But that didn’t matter because I had no intention of leaving the house alone, at least not until I was ready. I hadn’t set
foot outside without Lamont once in the last year, and I had no desire to do it now.
Outside was where the monsters were. Outside was where the Cyruses of this world lived. Outside was where I was useless to
my dead mother and father.
After two decades of hell, I wasn’t interested in anything but this slice of heaven. Yes, there were some challenges. Lamont’s
obsessive-compulsive disorder sometimes about drove me mad, I will admit. But his need for order and perfection was something
I had learned to tolerate, then appreciate.
Had he been any other man, one less loving, less tender, less caring and affectionate, I might have rebelled. Sometimes I
was tempted to wonder what living with a different man might be like, but the thoughts didn’t last long. The moment he walked
in at the end of the day, I knew my lover had come home, and any small price I might pay because of his quirks was insignificant
compared with the love he showered on me.
I loved Lamont with all of my being.
A chime pulled me from my lazy thoughts. I jerked upright—he was in the driveway!
My head spun with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and I sat frozen for a moment. Then I dropped my feet to the ground and stood,
dazed. What to do, what to do? But I knew what to do. I did it every time he came home.
I suddenly forgot whether I’d finished preparing the food. I had to make sure the kitchen was clean, because if Lamont found
a mess, even a small one, he would immediately clean it up on his own rather than ask me to do it. It was inconsiderate of
me to leave such a mess, knowing how it bothered him. I certainly had all the time in the world to accommodate his need for
cleanliness.
I started toward the door, felt the cold marble floor under my feet, and jumped back onto the rug. I dropped to my knees and,
using one of my slippers, wiped up the tracks of moisture my feet had left.
The room hadn’t changed. The one armoire easily held all my clothes because I preferred pajamas most of the time. One nightstand,
one dresser, one bed, one chair, and one bathroom.
Naturally, I slept in Lamont’s bed when he was home, which was about half the time. Lamont was old-fashioned in that way and
wanted to be sure I was fully respected in every way. We agreed that I should keep my own bedroom if it made me feel more
comfortable.
Sometimes I did sleep alone, even though we had been married. He called me his wife and I called him my husband. We had to
have a ceremony, of course. Lamont did everything by the book. He bought me a white dress and he wore a black tuxedo. We lit
candles and said our vows in the living room with the sea foaming outside the windows. It was perfect.
I pulled on my white gloves as I hurried down the glass-walled hall. The chime was the part of the security system that alerted
us to someone opening the outer gate. Of course, that “someone” was always Lamont, which meant I had about three minutes to
clean up.
What if it was someone else?
The thought stopped me in the living room, and I considered the terrifying
That much I could remember as I lay on my white bed in the pink-and-white room. I also knew that I was in my early twenties.
That I was dressed in the same checkered pink flannel pajamas that I almost always wore. That the one man who loved me more
than I could possibly love myself would soon be home after a long day at work.
There were other things that I knew about myself. I was no longer addicted to heroin. I never went hungry or lacked anything
I needed to live comfortably.
The thought that I might have to run down an alleyway to escape brutal men no longer entered my mind. I was safe as long as
I stayed in the house. If I ventured out alone, I might not be so lucky.
But that didn’t matter because I had no intention of leaving the house alone, at least not until I was ready. I hadn’t set
foot outside without Lamont once in the last year, and I had no desire to do it now.
Outside was where the monsters were. Outside was where the Cyruses of this world lived. Outside was where I was useless to
my dead mother and father.
After two decades of hell, I wasn’t interested in anything but this slice of heaven. Yes, there were some challenges. Lamont’s
obsessive-compulsive disorder sometimes about drove me mad, I will admit. But his need for order and perfection was something
I had learned to tolerate, then appreciate.
Had he been any other man, one less loving, less tender, less caring and affectionate, I might have rebelled. Sometimes I
was tempted to wonder what living with a different man might be like, but the thoughts didn’t last long. The moment he walked
in at the end of the day, I knew my lover had come home, and any small price I might pay because of his quirks was insignificant
compared with the love he showered on me.
I loved Lamont with all of my being.
A chime pulled me from my lazy thoughts. I jerked upright—he was in the driveway!
My head spun with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and I sat frozen for a moment. Then I dropped my feet to the ground and stood,
dazed. What to do, what to do? But I knew what to do. I did it every time he came home.
I suddenly forgot whether I’d finished preparing the food. I had to make sure the kitchen was clean, because if Lamont found
a mess, even a small one, he would immediately clean it up on his own rather than ask me to do it. It was inconsiderate of
me to leave such a mess, knowing how it bothered him. I certainly had all the time in the world to accommodate his need for
cleanliness.
I started toward the door, felt the cold marble floor under my feet, and jumped back onto the rug. I dropped to my knees and,
using one of my slippers, wiped up the tracks of moisture my feet had left.
The room hadn’t changed. The one armoire easily held all my clothes because I preferred pajamas most of the time. One nightstand,
one dresser, one bed, one chair, and one bathroom.
Naturally, I slept in Lamont’s bed when he was home, which was about half the time. Lamont was old-fashioned in that way and
wanted to be sure I was fully respected in every way. We agreed that I should keep my own bedroom if it made me feel more
comfortable.
Sometimes I did sleep alone, even though we had been married. He called me his wife and I called him my husband. We had to
have a ceremony, of course. Lamont did everything by the book. He bought me a white dress and he wore a black tuxedo. We lit
candles and said our vows in the living room with the sea foaming outside the windows. It was perfect.
I pulled on my white gloves as I hurried down the glass-walled hall. The chime was the part of the security system that alerted
us to someone opening the outer gate. Of course, that “someone” was always Lamont, which meant I had about three minutes to
clean up.
What if it was someone else?
The thought stopped me in the living room, and I considered the terrifying