GENESIS
By the time we left the house, my stomach was tied in knots.
Any minute, I felt like I'd throw up but I'd rather eat my own hand than do that. If I vomited in his sleek black car, he'd definitely hit me.
So, I sat stiffly, back straight against the seat. The low hum of the engine was the only sound. My fingers twisted and untwisted in my lap. Fear gnawed at me.
This was my third time outside.
The first was the court, people I knew.
The second was the clothes store, but it was private. Just him, the girl with the measuring tape, and me. Anxiety had stayed quiet then.
But this time…
This time felt different.
Strangers. Eyes.
If they saw my scars… if they whispered,
"Look at that strange freak."
I would disappear.
"Stop panicking."
His voice, calm but firm, cut through my spiral. I froze, sucking in a breath.
I could look at him now. Rules. I liked rules. If he gave me rules, I could follow them. I could be good.
The morning kiss. That was one rule. This… one more. Two rules. My fear stepped back, just a little.
"What are you thinking?" His voice nudged me. "You're blushing… a twitch at the corner of your mouth."
I looked away, heart skipping.
"What did I tell you about..."
I turned before he could finish. He glanced at me and smirked.
That's when I saw it…
A dimple.
I hadn't noticed before.
It made him softer. Almost human.
Mark had dimples too.
But his… they always made him look more evil.
A cold shiver crawled up my chest. I hated dimples.
Then something landed on my lap.
I froze.
A book.
A notebook with a smooth, hard cover and a colored pencil tucked in the spine.
Was I supposed to take it?
"It's not going to write itself, you know." His voice was calm, like this was normal. "It's for you. I want you to write."
My heart thudded painfully.
Then he paused.
"Wait… can you write?"
I nodded my head quickly.
I could write. My hands still trembled holding a pencil but I could.
"That's good." His gaze flicked briefly to me, then back to the road.
"Now write for me. Tell me what you're thinking."
Words swirled in my throat. Nobody had ever asked me to write. For him?
Trembling, I reached for the pencil. Cold. My grip slipped, clattering it to the floor.
I flinched.
He glanced at me, said nothing.
I picked it up again, tighter this time, hands shaking.
Slowly, I opened the book.
Blank. Untouched. A new page. A new beginning.
I ran my fingers over it. Pressed it against my nose, inhaling. Crisp, fresh, untouched.
Butterflies fluttered.
Happiness.
A warmth I hadn't felt in years—since Daisy in the garden yesterday. Light, soft, freeing.
After a decade and a half of pain… I was feeling happiness.
"It seems I'm not the only weirdo who likes the smell of new things."
His voice. Deep. Calm.
My head snapped up. Panic flared.
Punishment? He'd take it away? Call me names?
But his smile stayed.
I wasn't the only weirdo.
Weirdo.
Not a freak. Not disgusting.
He liked it too.
He took the book, sniffed it exaggeratedly, smiled, and handed it back.
"I love the smell of things when they're new," he said casually, eyes on the road.
My lips twitched. A small, shaky smile—almost forgotten.
My husband. Confusing.
Kind one moment. Cold the next.
I didn't understand him.
But I wanted to.
"Go ahead… write it for me," he murmured. "We're almost there."
I nodded, lowering my gaze to the blank page.
My chest thudded. Pencil on paper.
Big words weren't required.
He just wanted to know what I thought.
I wrote slowly, shaky letters forming neat words:
I need to know the rules you have for me.
By the time I finished, my hand trembled, but the letters were clear.
I hadn't realized the car had stopped.
We were already there.