Prisoner of her Spark

2. Twenty-Five: Drive

Every morning, I wake up long before I open my eyes. I already know who's in the house before I sit up. Nothing moves in my room without me knowing about it, I can feel it.

This morning I have good energy, I don't feel sick or tired. Jack is down in the garage, and Nurse Darby is getting ready for work in the kitchen. Nothing feels off in here, except the absence of anything being off. I can't trust that.

When I get up, I walk around and take a look at everything. It's all exactly where I put it. There's a thin bookmark I placed on top of all the books lined up on my shelf. It hasn't moved from where I marked it. My meticulously placed tiny figurines are exactly where I marked them with pencil. My few clothes and many hangers are separated exactly how I arranged them last night. The door— the piece of paper on the round handle is still balanced perfectly on top.

No one has been in my room. Just in case, I make my bed the same way it was with the old sheets. For a few minutes, I stare at the curtains. Should they be open or closed? I think closed is the safest bet. That's probably everything. I take the piece of paper off the handle, but when my hand turns the knob it feels off. One. Two. Three. Nothing happens.

Very slowly, I crack open the door, there's some resistance. Through the door and the frame I see something hanging on the knob outside. Finally, I open the door. It's some hangers with clothes on the door knob, and a medium paper bag on the floor in the doorway. I didn't wake up and hear this last night, when could this have happened? Is this for me? It must be. I don't know— but I do know I want it.

I slowly take the clothes and lay them right at the foot of my bed. The bag is going to be more obnoxious, so I gingerly grab the handles and lift it up, making only a little noise. I don't think anyone can hear that unless they were up here. I'll have to test the sound in here— footsteps softly march up the stairs— fuck! As fast, but as gently as possible, I swipe the bag inside and close the door somewhat softly. Very cautiously I twist the handle closed. I didn't hear the garage door open or close so it must be Nurse Darby. I hope she didn't see me. Her steps find the second floor and continue into across the hall and into her room. No one else is coming.

I walk around and set the bag on the middle of the bed. I pick up the pile of clothes and hang them in the closet. Right now I'm wearing an oversized green T-shirt from Jack and a faded pink pair of Nurse Darby's old pajama pants. They're comfy, but old, and not mine. On the hangers are a bunch of darker neutral toned shirts of varying sleeves. There are some tank tops and long sleeves and short sleeved shirts, with a lot of texture variety. I appreciate them a lot, this is pretty nice. Just so I don't steal them, I move the shirts from the hangers they came on to mine, and put the old hangers on the bed to the left of the bag.

Stapled on the outside of the bag is a note, "thank you for being so patient with us, you have been nothing if not wonderful. I hope you're settling in ok. Please let me know if there's anything you need or want to talk about :)" and it's signed, "June Darby," with three phone numbers below. Each is labeled with their own name, "Jack," "Me," "Agent Fowler." Oh wow. How helpful, phone numbers for me, someone who doesn't own a phone. Well, the note is very nice. Actually that's pretty suspicious.

On the top of the bag is a small brown box, about the size of a novel. There's nothing on it, but inside is a small new pocket knife, it's a pocket knife with the blade very short like a triangle, a small used multi tool, and my pliers with wire cutters. My pliers were taken when I went with Agent Fowler, I'm pretty relieved to get them back. Agent Fowler must have had it on him. There's a cool feature on one side, where the blade blocks out on the back of it and acts like a hammer and glass breaker. My pack is on my side table, I'll pack it with this stuff later. With that set aside, after that is— oh. What the fuck?