Over those seven years, Mason's career had only climbed higher. He had a lover now, and he'd gotten everything he ever wanted. He was a rich man, just as he'd planned.
To Mason, I was probably nothing more than a stain on his otherwise spotless life.
A stain he could never wash out.
Melody. Melody...
I kept my eyes shut, but the name from that caller ID kept floating through my mind.
I still remembered the early days of Mason's business. He was always gone before dawn and back long after dark.
Flirtatious texts on his phone, lipstick smudges on his white dress shirts. None of it was new.
Back then, I'd throw fits. I'd interrogate him, again and again.
Mason would just frown, his face full of impatience.
Looking back, it was laughable. The whole relationship had only ever been one-sided.
I drifted into a fitful sleep.
In the dream, a single warm-yellow candle flickered in a dim room, its flame guttering and swaying.
I sat slumped in a chair, staring at the food that had gone cold, at the birthday cake beside it.
The clock hand kept ticking. I was waiting for someone. Waiting for him to come home.
Until the sky turned a pale, sickly gray. Until something inside me dried up and died. Only then did I finally hear the lock turn.
The dream ended.
I came to slowly. Above me was a familiar bedroom ceiling, not the dim concrete of a prison cell.
It took a moment to register. I was out.
I was free.
Everything in that dream had actually happened.
That had been the last birthday I ever celebrated for Mason before I went to prison.
The last birthday I'd ever celebrate in my life.
I still remembered the gift I'd given him that year. It was the very thing that pushed me into the abyss.
I dragged my stiff legs off the bed and stood.
The living room was empty. I walked to the couch and pressed my hand against it. It still held a trace of warmth.
I stared blankly out the window at the open sky. Seven years locked away had severed every thread connecting me to the world outside.
Loneliness wrapped around me like a fist, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.
Freedom after prison hadn't delivered me to a new life. It had dropped me into a different kind of void.
The world was vast, and I had nowhere to go. Who would take in someone with a record?
While I stood there lost in thought, Mason came back. He was carrying breakfast.
I glanced at the steaming coffee and pastries on the table, and my stomach lurched.
Years ago, I would have been wolfing it all down already.
Back then, I'd believed life held two perfect happinesses:
Good food, and the company of the person you loved.
Mason watched me standing frozen in place. He walked over, took my hand, and led me to the table.
I looked down at his fingers gripping mine, then at the food, and without warning a wave of nausea tore through me so violently my whole body seized.
I bolted to the bathroom and heaved over the sink, retching until there was nothing left,
until my eyes brimmed with involuntary tears.
In the mirror, I could see Mason standing behind me, his gaze fixed on my back.
His brow was furrowed. He looked terrible.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm taking you to the hospital."
He was already scrambling to gather his things before he'd finished the sentence.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. My voice came out quiet:
"The sight of you makes me sick."
"You said you wanted to make it up to me, Mason? Then drop dead. That would make me happy."
The color drained further from his already pale face. He forced a thin smile.
I watched him with no expression, no feeling at all.
"This is my home."
One sentence. It said everything that needed saying.
The living room sank into a strange, heavy silence.
Mason was the one who broke it. His voice was low and hoarse:
"Take care of yourself. If you need anything, call me."
