Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 1
Temper
Temper
Book One in the Taboo Series
Brittany Chapman
Copyright © 2019 by Brittany Chapman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the creator, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication
To Tiffany- for teaching me to love reading, and later encouraging me to write. Only you can tear me down simply so I can rebuild stronger.
Contents
Chapter 1- Unhealthy
Chapter 2- Slice
Chapter 3-Vanilla
Chapter 4- Plump
Chapter 5- Honeysuckle
Chapter 6- Aftertaste
Chapter 7- Scorch
Chapter 8- Melt
Chapter 9- Cracked
Chapter 10- Warm
Chapter 11- Shaken
Chapter 12- Saturated
Chapter 13- Amuse-bouche
Chapter 14- Blanch
Chapter 15- Steam
Chapter 16- Smothered
Chapter 17- Bruise
Chapter 18- Stirred
Chapter 19- Diluted
Chapter 20- Butterfly
Chapter 21- Wrapped
Chapter 22- Frozen
Chapter 23- Over Easy
Chapter 24- Smoked
Chapter 25- Smear
Chapter 26- Carved
Chapter 27- Pulp
Chapter 28- Score
Chapter 29- Brittle
Chapter 30- Bitter
Chapter 31- Palate
Chapter 32- Raw
Chapter 33- Beaten
Chapter 34- Fresh
Chapter 35- Ribbon
Chapter 36- Aerate
Chapter 37- Mold
Chapter 38- Hull
Chapter 39- Pressed
Chapter 40- Thicken
Chapter 41- Grate
Chapter 42- Crush
Chapter 43- Pare
Chapter 44- Trussed
Hugh
Chapter 45- Reduction
Hugh
Chapter 46- Garnish
Chapter 47- Coddled
Chapter 48- Caramelized
Chapter 49- Vent
Chapter 50- Frost
Chapter 51- Rest
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I would like thank Lorrin Cupp for her extensive edits as well as Megan Johnson for her assistance with the covers of this novel. I am also grateful to Jayne Gardener Southerland, Amanda James, and Dustin Woodall for their never-ending patience and support.
The annoying questions will never end.
Chapter 1- Unhealthy
Romance was the idol in my home. I learned from my mother, and all of her perfection, how a lady should behave. She taught me in her subtle way how to show and accept love.
I noticed everything in small moments. Father could never help but to stare at her from across a room, caress her shoulder absentmindedly, or close his eyes as he kissed her hair to make the moment last forever.
I wanted to be loved the way my father loved my mother. I would watch her and wish to be made to feel the way she did. She sighed contentedly, closed her eyes, and inhaled all of the affection he gave. She giggled at his whispers and sly touches, none meant for my young eyes and ears.
She was beautiful with reddish gold hair rolling down to her hips. She stood almost a head above Father but still managed to be feminine. Her creamy, peach-toned skin made her pale-blue eyes almost luminescent.
She was the epitome of feminine perfection but also so much more. She was charitable, docile in most situations, but fierce when anyone dared question her morals.
She was a lesson all along, in her own way- a confusing puzzle none of us solved.
✷✴✷
It took years for Mother to win the argument for me to go to school. I was fifteen when I was subjected to the strange behaviors and language of people my own age. It didn’t take long to become invisible and to stop going to class altogether. My sixteenth birthday proved to be no different.
I woke anxious for the extravagant evening party Mother planned. I knew the neighboring bully would come with his widowed father.
Kids from school who couldn’t place my face with my name would attend. My estranged grandparents also planned to make an appearance. As I put on my school uniform and tied back my long, straight black hair I tried not to envision the last time Grandmother was in our home.
I was young and frightened of the tall, intimidating woman. Grandmother never fit the stereotype. She was young for the title of Grandmother, wasn’t affectionate, and I doubt she’d ever baked a pie. Her voice rang for Mother as she entered the house. I hid in my bedroom, listening to her footsteps and fighting to remain silent as she passed.
Mother had yet to utter a word when Grandmother Elizabeth began a tirade about ‘interference’- a topic never lived to be elaborated. She accused Mother of having no respect, of being a worthless degenerate. She claimed Mother was never worthy of being carried in Grandmother’s womb.
Mother responded with silence. When Grandmother left, Mother didn’t even cry. Her face was hard as she put away her makeup brushes. I still didn’t understand why Grandmother was so cruel for all those years. I knew there would be an icy civility between them when witnesses and guests were around.
My anxiety rose as my mind returned to the present. I zipped my skirt, grabbed my cherry chapstick, and rushed from my room. I realized most of the attention would be trained on Mother, even though I would have to turn the spotlight to myself on occasion.
It was rare for Mother to attempt cooking a real meal. The results of her efforts were always inedible. For my sixteenth birthday, she took lessons to be able to provide the perfect cake with her own hands. It was her own vision for me.
She knew I despised surprises but wouldn’t even reveal the type of frosting. After hearing Father compliment her work from the kitchen I let myself grow excited. At least there would be something pleasant about the event.
Nothing seemed amiss when Mother kissed me goodbye that morning. At school, it was any other day. The rain pushed me to stay longer in the gazebo where I hid, doing my school work. I was relieved when Father picked me up an hour early to ready for the party as promised.
I hid my apprehension for him as his giddy demeanor attempted to brighten my stark mood. I felt guilty knowing Mother put so much effort into the celebration though also agitated that she hadn’t arranged something smaller to suit my taste.
Torrents of rain tried to push the car back as my ears rang. I looked to see Father’s large gray eyes, identical to my own, narrowed in concentration as we inched along the road.
Periodically he would flash me a smile as though to say not to worry, we would get home safe, and everything would be fine.
“Will people be too afraid to come because of the storm?” I asked, trying to force disappointment into my voice to hide the hope.
He grinned, his dimples deep and handsome, “Don’t worry, Olivia. No one would miss your day over a bit of water.” I stared out at the lightning and forceful winds, praying he was wrong.
All I wanted to do was to stop and wait out the storm, but he pushed on. Father wanted to get home to Mother, to see her radiant and shimmering in the gown we chose for the party. His eyes distanced at the thought of her.
When we arrived Mr. Stan ran to the car with an umbrella. He held my arm to keep me from slipping as we ran for the porch. Any other day I would have loved to splash, run, and make our live-in butler spin with me in the pouring rain, but my nerves were strained as the hour for the celebration neared.
Mr. Stan could see my worries when we entered the quiet house. His deep voice was lost to me though, his words unintelligible as I looked around.
White and green flowers spilled from every corner and hung over the banisters. Tiny glass globes with soft candlelight made the room glow as Pachelbel seeped from hidden speakers. Crystal-encrusted ribbons made everything shimmer.
It felt as though I was standing in Alice’s wonderland garden, a weed among singing flowers.
“Where’s Ruth?” Father asked, breaking the surreal ambiance.
Mr. Stan looked to the stairs, “She laid down after her morning run. I assume she’s still asleep.”
Father grinned down at me, the joy of being able to wake his sleeping, cherished wife lighting his features. He danced up the stairs two at a time. I let myself become immersed in my senses- the scent of hydrangeas and roses, the sound of the music and Father’s echoing steps.
Mr. Stan’s voice guided me through my stress. He brought a smile to my face as he bent to kiss my hair.
I stared around at the perfection of the house. It was ethereal and whimsical. I looked through the doorway to the dining room to see if the caterers had begun their work. I peered around, excited for a glimpse of the anticipated cake. I looked forward to celebrating with Mother on her success
The moment of peace was shattered by a small, pained scream from upstairs. The sound stained the room as my vision caved. My heart didn’t know if it should stop or fight its way from my chest.
Reality surged through my mind. Mr. Stan and I bolted. My anxiety for a party seemed childish as we raced up the stairs. When we turned in the upstairs hall the floral bouquet from bellow was replaced by the stench of blood.
Mr. Stan sprinted ahead and stopped in my parents’ doorway. I focused on his reaction as I hurried. His eyes widened as his face paled.
I couldn’t swallow. My muscles constricted. A whimper climbed through my chest as he doubled over and heaved in the hall. My legs weakened and struggled for me to stop as I fought them to move forward.
I forced myself closer, telling myself the image of the room couldn’t be as horrible as I imagined.
Mr. Stan trembled. His hands fumbled as he tried to grasp my wrist.
Nothing bad could happen in my flawless home- not in my parents’ room full of romance and whimsy. I reached for the door jam, pulling myself from his grasp as his voice cracked with emotion, “Olivia, don’t.”
I wish I had listened. I wish I had let him back me from the room. I could have protected my mind from the stain of death.
I dropped to my knees beside my motionless Father, shaking him with every ounce of my being, begging him to get up.
I became a child, my screams lost as I called for him. He wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t answer though his skin was still warm. His face was frozen in a pained grimace with his hands clenched onto his chest.
His glazing eyes refused to avert from my mother.
I followed his unblinking gaze, assaulted with the image of her. The sadistic words that came from my lips when I flung myself across the room will always stay within those walls, an echo of the beast that is now forever within me.
I pummeled her body with my useless fists. Those few seconds it took for my mind to register, for her betrayal to crush me, was all it took for my life to twist and unravel.
I slipped in her blood but was denied the chance to tell her how much I hated her and how deceiving of a being she was.
She couldn’t hear me. She wouldn’t listen.
The room was drenched in her blood as she laid across the foot of the bed. Her face was made but pale and cold. Her white, angelic gown was stained red and brown.
She wore the dress I chose for her, for my birthday, to shed the life from her body and with it steal the breath from my father’s chest.
I have no shame for my tears, fury, or fear. I became violence and spite in that moment before I was snapped back into my own mortality by Stan. He dragged me across the floor, ignoring my raging fists. Screaming and kicking, I tried to escape him. Regardless of how I struggled he wouldn’t release me.
He held me in the hallway. Both of us crumbled with her blood saturating us. He held my limbs down as I fought to get back to her, though knowing it would change nothing.
✷✴✷
Medics came but failed to revive my father. Their explanation of a heart attack seemed mundane. He was too young. Cardiac arrest at his age dumbfounded everyone.
When my grandparents arrived, calls were made across the city for the celebration to be canceled. There were movements and sounds all around me but I couldn’t absorb or make sense of any of it. My world became isolated and muted. Mr. Stan stood in front of me to block my view as my shrouded parents were carried down the stairs.
A week and a half passed before we could bury my parents. There were difficulties with my mother’s tox-screen, making her death stretch across time until it was unbearable.
When we were allowed to lay my father to rest I said goodbye to him. His cheek felt loose beneath my lips as I kissed him. He smelled like cheap makeup. His body didn’t look like it ever held his spirit. It felt too empty and shallow to have ever contained his light. I would never get to say a true goodbye to him.
When it was time to say my farewells to Mother I turned away from her casket. The suicide note she had clutched in her hand was indecipherable, smeared and soaked in crimson. However, I doubted it would have been sufficient with her reasonings.
Even in death, she was beautiful. The mortician used synthetic material to fasten over the gaping wounds cascading down her forearms. She was as perfect and fake in death as she was in life.
I looked around at the overwhelming amount of people who came to the service. I recognized many faces of those she had helped emotionally and monetarily. She was loved and deserving of it.
I stood beneath the mocking sun at the gravesite, shaking hands and muttering false appreciation for their condolences. I wanted to sink into the ground and disappear from the curious glances and whispers. It was a circus with too many spectators feigning respect for people they didn’t truly know.
None of them ever heard my Father sing in his soft, shaking voice. None of them could resurrect the memory of Ruth feeding baby birds after a storm, their nest destroyed. Not one of the mourning people knew how Father always conceded to his love, granting her every wish. None of the strangers could count the times in a day they looked across at each other with so much affection it was almost fantastical.
Meaningless words were spoken about my parents. The compliments and prayers were empty and numbing.
I hated the mother I once idolized and tried to mimic. She stole so much from me in the minutes it took to bleed out. She took away my family, my love, and my safety.
As the large crowd dispersed I was ushered to a black vehicle. I assumed I would go home. Instead, Grandmother and Grandfather situated in the seat across from me and we were driven onto the highway in the opposite direction.
I tried to protest as despair sunk into my being. Grandmother lifted her brow, her eyes glinting with warnings at my lack of perfect obedience.
She watched me through the entirety of the long, exhausting ride. Her eyes were identical to Mother’s, a pale, icy blue almost ethereal in color but with a hardness that always silenced me with fear.
Chapter 2- Slice
The house loomed over us as the doors to the car were opened. I wanted to stay in the vehicle, to beg once more to live at home with Mr. Stan. Trepidation trembled within me at the thought of stepping into the foyer of their mansion. I felt as though it would devour me.
The eyes of the servants standing on the wide front porch bore into me. They waited for me to show myself so they could move. I tried to hide the quake in my knees as I stood.
Grandmother smiled to herself as though she had already tamed me. She spun and gestured for me to follow her. I tried to listen to her demands as we walked but all of my efforts were trained on keeping my expression stoic.
“Stay away from the kitchen. Stay away from the servants’ quarters. Do not enter my suite without my permission. Do not go into the attic. Do not befriend the help. Keep your clothes clean and hair neat.” Grandmother spun to face me. “Abide by these simple rules and I will tolerate your…” her eyes dragged down my body to the tip of my black heel, “distasteful footwear.”
I tried to ignore the nervous twitter in my gut. I was always dismissive of her constant misunderstanding of my choice in shoes.
Ruth was more lenient. She understood my need to compensate my height with powerful, confident shoes. She encouraged me, proclaiming my right to bodily autonomy regardless of age.
“Yes ma'am,” I responded.
“Be easy on her, Elizabeth,” Grandfather huffed from behind. “Olivia hasn’t been here in eight years, don’t scare her away.” Grandmother smirked down at him over my head.
She turned and I followed her while trying to avoid the eyes of passing servants. They swept past to gather my belongings from the car or lingered for an opportunity to introduce themselves. I worried about appearing arrogant but wasn’t ready to deal with more looks of sympathy.
I followed Grandmother through the vast entry hall to the curving, white marble staircase. The grandeur of the home was intimidating. I remembered fleeting images of childhood memories- hiding in the library, afraid to touch anything, and being terrified I would get lost.
I was pulled back to the present as I was lead to my mother’s childhood bedroom. I fought to hide my internal struggle and wanted to protest as Grandmother turned, watching for my reaction.
