I worry that he sees me. Belly down and dragging myself across the floor. The carpet burns my knees, stomach and arms. I crawl under the kitchen counter and roll onto my back so I can see the counter from underneath. I wait.
"Keith," I whisper, knowing he hears me. He is resting atop the counter and angry that he cannot see me and follow my movements. To prove he has no control over me I clench and unclench my toes. I lick the insides of my mouth. All movements he cannot see or control.
Then. I think maybe. Maybe these movements are his idea. Maybe every flinch is formulated by him.
I move quickly. Spastic. I kick one leg up and slap the ground with my palm. Then I trace a circle onto my forehead. I shake, pretending I am having a seizure. Slam my head back into the linoleum.
I think I hear him laughing. The papery swooshing noise that a photograph makes when it laughs.