My first book

Sara POV

"Sara, why did you pull out that drawer without asking me to?" He yelled at me in response to my question.

"Don't try to get involved in my life; you know very well why I married you, so please respect my boundaries." I was afraid of his loud voice.

"Aron, please don't yell at me; I didn't touch this drawer intentionally." I'm still struggling to get over my panic attack from last night, and his harsh tone is making things worse.

I mistakenly believed that we could at least be friends after noticing his soft side in the morning, but this monster is not deserving of my compassion or empathy.

"Sara, lock the drawer right away." He gave me the chills with his harsh comments, and I shut the drawer the second he spoke.

"Aron, I apologize and promise not to touch your belongings again."

After wiping away my tears, I ended the call.

Why did he show concern for me in the morning when his only perception of me was as a sexual object? I jumped out of bed and left his room straight away. I would rather not spend any more time in his room. Despite the excruciating pain I was experiencing from my injured feet, I had to leave his room due to his angry comments.

I made my way to the kitchen because I needed water to take my medication. Upon seeing the state of the kitchen, I halted at the door.

Did he fight a battle in the kitchen?

I quickly inspected the items scattered on the kitchen island.

There are two cracked eggs on the kitchen floor. When the salt jar opened, salt was all over the gas stove. He touched the jar with an oily hand, so everything appeared oily. In the kitchen sink, I found the scorched pan. I have never seen a kitchen in such dreadful condition.

When I noticed the state of the kitchen, I set aside my leg discomfort and set out to clean it. I always start cleaning the house as soon as my childhood traumas become too much for me to handle. Cleaning the grimy bathroom tiles and washing the used kitchen dishes instantly makes me feel better. To calm the chaos of emotions inside of me, I occasionally wash piles of dirty clothes.

I used a fresh towel to clean the refrigerator, and when I saw its sparkling exterior, I experienced an odd sense of satisfaction. Before cleaning the gas stove, I wiped off all the oil from the jars' surfaces and arranged them. Two hours of arduous work have allowed me to restore the kitchen to its initial condition.

Since he doesn't know how to handle delicate items gently, I shall ask him now to never again enter the kitchen. However, I will ask him to stay away from entering the kitchen. I am just a sex toy for him, as he has already told me. I can't help but think about his harsh comments again. My eyes filled with tears again as I recalled his cruel remarks.

I'm not sure why his remarks have such a profound effect on me. He told me nothing new. I am well aware of his motive behind marrying me, but I don't understand why I am shedding tears upon hearing the truth from his mouth. Stepping into the bathroom, I meticulously scrubbed every surface, including the floor, walls, tiles, bathtub, washbasin, toilet sheet, and even the glass of the shower chamber.

I was attempting to divert my attention from everything by cleaning. Right now, I'd rather not dwell on anything because remembering my traumatic past is too much to bear. I am too weak to contemplate the future, as the present serves as a constant reminder of my past pain.

Getting out of his prison and starting over with Neil is my dream, but it's not as easy as it looks.

Suddenly, I was thinking about Neil's text again. He wants to discuss an important matter with me. I tried calling him to find out where he was, but he didn't answer.

I went to his study and picked out a book to read before making my way to my tree house. I'm relieved that he didn't have my book, in which I referenced Uncle Joe. I drew inspiration from real-life experiences to write the narrative about my uncle's hidden face.

I wrote that book during the rainy season of my 17s, a time when the memory of my uncle's physical torture often triggered panic attacks in me. I transformed my hidden secret into a narrative and shared it with the world, as I had no other way to express my pain to anyone else.

I poured all of my painful experiences with Uncle Joe into my book, along with a dash of dramatization and creativity.

On that platform, it was quite popular. Upon learning of the female character's traumatic past, many readers empathize with her.

However, I am fully aware that if I share this story with anyone I know, they will perceive it as a true account of my life. They will never have faith in me, and even if they do, they will only ever be able to judge my character. Nobody can truly comprehend the suffering I went through as a child. My parents didn't believe me when I tried to tell them about Uncle Joe.

Writing a novel about those horrifying experiences in my life has been an extremely painful journey for me. However, it has helped me overcome my excruciating agony.

However, after meeting Aron, I felt as though all of my prior trauma had begun to resurface. I read my novels again to inspire myself when I'm feeling down, but I've never dared to pick up this book again.

Every writer's journey begins with a traumatic life event. I believed this to be true because it was my first book, which I began writing in an attempt to forget about Uncle Joe.

The sound of my phone buzzing brought me back to the present. Seeing an unknown number on my phone, I received a call out of curiosity.

"Is this you, Authoress Naughty, on the line?" Hearing my pen name surprised me.

Who is calling me?

I have no idea how they acquired my number because I have always urged them to keep my identity private.

"Who is this?" I didn't provide them with confirmation of my identity. I want to know who is speaking to me first.

She identified herself as my first book's publisher. Since her publishing house burned down, leaving her without any books, she expressed interest in my first book draft. Realizing that the book had already been deleted and that Aron Finge would never learn about Uncle Joe's story filled me with a sense of relief.

"Sorry, it's the wrong number." I ended the call without listening to her further.

For a time, I stared at the number on my screen, wondering why, after all these years, they were still interested in my first book.

How did they get my phone number? I have a ton of questions on my mind. I tried calling that unknown number once again to get the answers to my queries, but sadly, it was out of service. I started to read the book, but my thoughts were constantly on the injections and pills I had seen in his drawer.

So, why did he take those pills?

As my curiosity grew, I felt compelled to go back to his room and locate the tablets on my own.