AMY
I stopped the car in the driveway where Mr. Johnson, the butler, was waiting.
“Mr. Johnson, you don't have to wait for me,” I told him, grabbing my bag from the car. He looked a bit shaken, so I wondered if he was sick. The house seemed a little bit quiet and the lights were off.
Lately, it has felt like this was just a house where I simply existed or where I was tolerated. It was terrible thinking about the house I called home now becoming where I came back to because I had to. Just because I was told to.
“I know,” he said, taking the car key from me. “You looked stressed, miss Amy, are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that, you look tired, Mr. Johnson,” I said to him, observing that he had got quite slimmer too.
“I'm fine.” He smiled at me and went back to his duty post.
