Split [ONC 2024]

9. Chord

I know this is a bad idea.

Deep inside my mind, I've already pinpointed all the dangers of my behavior, all the whispers it can lead to, especially after what happened with Anika. I'm too aware I'm still under close scrutiny, even if I was allowed to leave the crime scene.

But I don't care. I can't stay in this house, glancing at the corners obsessively, jumping at every whisper of the air conditioning, any longer.

So, in spite of my better judgement, I put on my track suit, and decided to go for a run.

I usually don't run on weekends. I know this will be another issue, but then again, so much has happened to me lately that I'm more than justified to change my patterns. I think about it long and hard as I lace up my running shoes. The ones I wore last time. The ones which left sole marks in the opposite direction from the one I was going in.

That's insane.

And I can almost convince myself that it is. That I didn't just go through everything I have over the past two days. That I didn't see more blood than I ever had in my life. That I didn't see someone's skull crushed in and felt nothing. Though, to be fair, I probably would have if it wasn't Anika. Or maybe I'm so shocked by the turn my life has taken that I'm completely desensitized.

I sit up off the final step of the stair case and prop my foot on a higher step for some lunges. The rest of the house is quiet and I haven't put my earbuds in yet. Steve is on his PlayStation again, his headphones on. It annoys me, but I try to let him be. I know this situation isn't easy for him either. But this time, seeing as I'm about to leave the house for a while and be alone, I have to disturb him.

After I'm done stretching, I walk over to him and tap his shoulder. He jumps a mile high, dropping his controler.

"Jesus, Eva," he breathes, taking his headphones off.

"I'm going out for a run," I announce, ignoring his exaggerated reaction. He should be able to tell when people come near him. "I'm taking the usual trail, so it should take me around forty minutes to be back."

"Yeah, I know," he says, picking up the control again and pausing his game. He then narrows his eyes at me. "Why are you being so specific?"

Is he daft? "I want you to know where I am in case something happens."

His entire body tenses, and I'm convinced that he forgot everything while being entranced in his game. I clench my fist to keep the bubbling anger in. Does he care that little about me? How can he go on like nothing happened?

"Maybe you shouldn't go out if you think something will happen." His voice is flat.

"And do what? Stay in and watch you playing videogames on the only TV in this house?"

He frowns. "It's the only way I can unwind for a few moments."

"How long have you been playing?"

He doesn't answer because it's been hours. "What's going on? You never had an issue with this before."

I hadn't been involved in murders before either. But I don't want to tell him this. It's so obvious that I shouldn't have to mention it at all. He should know this one a moment in which he should support his wife.

There are still scratches on his face from the shards of the broken plate. I'm tempted to ask him again what really happened with that, but I don't think I could handle an argument in which he'd insist that it was my doing. The wariness in his eyes points to that much. I'm next tempted to ask about the mistress theory again, but even if it were true, he would be a fool to admit it now.