No judging...but I googled "Why do your farts follow you?" and was surprisingly educated.

kareedelane's review from the previous chapter may or may not have inspired the last line in this one. Squish.

Your whispers are soft and gentle against my skin, my hair, pulling me from beyond the turbulent and howling darkness. The sun rains in through the window, the heat warming my face. The back of my eyelids have turned a vibrant red, and yet it does little to call me back from the blackness.

"Wake up, sweet girl." Your kisses follow your whispers. "I've made breakfast. Come and eat with me."

That's enough to pull me from my slumber. Sharing anything with you is the best thing in the world. Your gorgeous greens smile down at me as I force myself awake.

"Good morning."

"Morning, Daddy."

You pull the blankets back and help me sit up. The purple satin you ripped from my body the night before and discarded onto the floor is nowhere to be seen. It is instead replaced with light blue cotton that dips low and hangs short. You hum in appreciation.

We stop by the bathroom first, where you clean my cuts, blowing on the sting. "I'm sorry, but this needs to be done."

I refuse to cry. I want to be your big girl, but I feel my resolve slowly dying. "It hurts, Daddy."

"I know. Just a few more." After you've kissed each and every one of those nasty red welts and then one more on my lips, you leave me to do my business, saying, "You have five minutes."

I don't dare take my time and am out and walking down the hallway in two. Right there. Just before the corner, where the hallway turns into the living room. Your normally pristine household is dirtied. I hate it. A reminder of last night.

It makes me want to hunt Alice down and strangle her again. She soiled your home when she trespassed, scuffed the floor with her muddy shoes, threatening to break the perfect order of your household. And who was stuck cleaning it all up? You.

"Isabella?" you call out. You're standing in the kitchen doorway, your hands on your hips, with a hard look in your gorgeous greens. "It's been more than five minutes."

I point at the wood floor. "There's mud here, Daddy."

You don't even glance down, choosing instead to march where I am and grabbing my hand. "I'll take care of it later. Breakfast is getting cold."

My feet are shuffling along the floor before I can say anything, and it makes me wonder. Does the dried mud, flaking and smeared, make you as angry with Alice as it does me? She invaded our private space. Our sanctuary. Where there's only me and you. I hope that every time it rains, she remembers what my fingers feel like wrapped around her neck.

This place. Us. We have to protect it. At all costs.