Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 4
The attic was reminiscent of a studio apartment with a small but functional kitchen, a homey living area, and an enclosed bathroom. Across the room was what I assumed to be her personal area. The light pinks and floral prints were barely visible over the half wall separating her bedroom from her son’s.
I looked to his corner, the closest to me. The bed seemed old but perfectly made. There was minimal clutter, a closet without a door revealing his clothes, an acoustic guitar, and a small, mesh hamper. There was something unsettling about the painstaking perfection of his corner.
A picture on his nightstand captured my attention. I took a step closer to peer at a baby Hugh being held by two women, his mother and my own.
It was strange to see Ruth with her hair down and untamed. Her hand across the plump belly of the baby was easily recognizable, yet the nails were unpolished, short, and uncared for. She wore no makeup. The woman smiling up at me wasn’t the mother I knew.
I glanced up to catch Hannah’s stare. She was sitting up as Hugh knelt to speak in a hushed voice, his face a vivid red. Her wide, frightened eyes were trained on me. I couldn’t help but stare back, confused at the silent accusations she shot in my direction.
Hugh stood as she gave him a short huff. Her words were too soft to reach my ears but sharp enough to make him glance in my direction as though mortified I might hear. I turned away, not wanting to add to his embarrassment.
“You two be careful,” Hannah threw as a warning. Hugh waved in answer as he pulled me from the room.
Chapter 5- Honeysuckle
I could sense confusion and resignation in his footsteps. “You don’t need anything?” he asked as we reached the bottom of the dizzying stairs before deciding our direction.
I patted my chest to make sure the chapstick was still there before shaking my head. “Plenty of my things were left at home.”
I followed him back through the hall to the garage. He grabbed a set of keys from the hook board and made his way between the rows of cars to a gray compact vehicle. He opened the passenger door and stepped back, waiting.
I almost turned away, scared of a two and a half hour drive with those eyes. The excitement burning through my veins pushed me forward to slide into the seat.
The vanilla scent and neurotic cleanliness of the vehicle made me tense as he drove us between the cars onto the driveway, through the automatic gates, and into the street. I recalled the state in which I left my bedroom and glanced at his profile with embarrassment.
His thumping, heavy music with traumatic lyrics dug into my brain with odd comfort. I asked one simple question; who was the artist? The minuscule inquiry began hours of steady conversation and laughter. Inconsequential sentences wove together around us until he rolled the windows down.
I reclined my seat and slipped off my shoes. My hair flowed freely in the wind as I watched his thick, onyx, corkscrew curls shine in the rising light of the waning moon. It felt too simple and peaceful. Surreal. After so much time in a coffin of mourning and self-doubt, I found relaxation and hope.
A mechanical voice interrupted my daze as it gave directions from his dashboard. “How do you know my address?” I asked. The trust I never meant to grant slipped.
“Elizabeth made me come help clean out Ruth’s room the day before the funeral,” he answered, watching me.
My heart stilled, “Clean it out?”
His eyes narrowed as he chanced a glance in my direction. “She said you knew about it.”
He turned onto my street. I forced my face to remain expressionless.
The day before the funeral Elizabeth forced me go with Grandfather to check on my parents’ arrangements. I was made to sit alone in a stifling room with dying flowers for hours with nothing to do but reflect on my own loss and their memories.
I understood the blood needed to be cleaned, but he implied more was done. I prayed it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Hugh pulled through the opening gate to my home and down the long drive. We stopped in front of the darkened house. He killed the engine as he turned to me.
“I swear she claimed you knew. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head and gave him a polite smile. “You were doing your job. You don’t owe me anything.” I reached for the handle of the door, trying to feign serenity as my anger radiated.
He jumped from the car and stormed to my side. I was too exhausted and distracted for the impending argument. I glared at him, waiting.
A cloud slid over the moon to hide his face in shadows as he closed the car door. He said nothing as he stared down at me, too close with clenched fists. His steady breath was the single, comforting sign that his rigid body wasn’t a result of rage.
Though I knew he hadn’t controlled of the situation, a petty bird fluttered in my chest. I kept my voice cool and detached as I turned toward the house, “It’s too late for you drive home. You can stay in the guest room tonight.”
I stepped into the entry hall and looked towards the den. Mr. Stan turned away from his literature and stared at me with shock.
My heart hammered as I flung myself toward him. He rose from his chair and rushed to meet me. The powerful impact of his hug knocked the air from my lungs as my feet lifted from the rug.
“I missed you, Princess.”
He pulled away as Hugh’s soft footsteps neared. I turned and introduced them.
Mr. Stan stared at Hugh, his mind fighting for recognition. Hugh stared back with confusion and discomfort.
“Have we met before?” Stan finally asked.
Hugh shook his head. Stan pulled his face into a tight smile as though he didn’t believe Hugh.
I heard the lingering contemplation in his voice when he said, “I was about to make dinner. I hope you’re both hungry.” He excused himself past me as I looked to the stairs.
I needed to see if Hugh told the truth. I needed to see Elizabeth's lie.
I left Hugh standing awkward and alone in the den as I made my way up the stairs. My pace remained calm as I fought the trepidation. I walked passed my room and stopped at their door. I pushed it open, flipped on the light, and exhaled at the overwhelming emptiness.
I hadn’t expected the red, romantic carpet to have been removed, revealing the mahogany underneath. Everything was gone- the curtains, paintings, and Ruth’s vanity. There was no evidence of their existence besides the large dark stain in the middle of the room. My eyes were glued to the damage caused by the water and blood. So much blood.
I forced myself to cross the threshold, trying to remember every detail of the past and the way the room looked before. Without their personalities, the room felt numb and hollow.
The heavy depression in my chest made my mouth and eyes dry. It didn’t feel real. I caressed the frame of the bathroom door, praying for a shred of familiarity in my artificial house.
I pushed the door open. A laugh rose in my throat as bliss flooded me. Mother’s towel still hung on the back of the door. Her honeysuckle oil and soaps still lined the tub. Father’s hair gel lay open and a black tie was draped over the back of the chair.
I sighed as I sunk into the plush armchair in the corner of the room where I often sat to chat with Father as he readied in the morning, shaving and grinning at me in the mirror. From that corner, I watched Mother as she oiled her red, steaming legs after her bath.
I looked around the bathroom and watched the memories dance in the shadows, churning my grief. I fought myself to stay quiet as I wept. I couldn’t stop hating her. I couldn’t stop screaming at her. I needed the comfort of that room and yet it was suffocating.
I stood, stumbling into the empty tomb of their bedroom. I wanted to preserve the moments I shared with them but I also wanted to forget. It would be so much easier to heal if I could.
When I steadied I moved to the closet door, hoping most of their belongings were stored rather than trashed.
I stepped back as heat rose, squirming its way from my toes to my face. None of the doors to the house should have been locked except for mine or Stan’s. Mother gave up the right to privacy the moment she chose to self-slaughter.
“Hey-” I spun on Hugh as came into view from the hallway. He hesitated, taking in my demeanor. His voice softened, “Are you ok?”
I dragged a full of air into my furious lungs. I snapped him a short nod as I threw one last look at the closet, rage drumming against my skull. I moved around him, closing the door as my way of blocking it out.
He watched as I steadied myself in the hall. I was thankful he didn’t try to force polite conversation as we walked down the stairs to the aroma of alfredo and steamed broccoli.
I pretended to be in the moment, undistracted from my company. I stepped into the dining room and took the stack of dishes from Mr. Stan. He gave me a sad smile as I began setting three places.
Mr. Stan and Hugh began to discuss cooking techniques. As we ate Stan’s eyes would travel Hugh’s face in pursuit to recall a time or memory. When we finished the meal I stood to gather the dishes.
Stan pushed my hands away. “You haven’t been home long. Go rest.”
Hugh leaned back in his chair, eyeing me as though still answering his own silent questions. His eyes were shadowed. I realized how exhausted I was. He had been awake before me, preparing the ‘peace offering.’
“The guest room is this way,” I offered, gesturing for him to follow. I led him through the den and down the hall to the room.
“‘Night, Olivia.”
“Goodnight.” I struggled with the words to express myself, my gratitude, and my reason for it. “Thank you for bringing me home.” The day had been a mess of emotions, and he had persisted through it all.
His eyes lit as he smiled, soft and genuine. A blush crept across my face as I walked away.
I had never had a friend before. The thought should have made me happy and excited but it made my muscles twitch and breath hitch. He watched me as I disappeared down the hall and through the den. I turned at the stairs to catch him slipping into the guest room with a strange emotion electrifying the blue of his eyes.
I stood in my bedroom and let the bright flood of light from the moon illuminate everything. I pulled my feet from the pumps and sighed as I dug my cramping toes into the plush carpet.
I unzipped the dress and let it fall to the floor, crawling desperately into the familiar bed and pulled my perfect, lumpy pillows close. I inhaled as deep as my body would allow and clamped my eyes closed.
I could smell everything, the past, the present, the lemon cleaner Stan made, Mother, Father, and the rosemary and lavender oils I preferred. It hurt. The scents dug into my mind with memories and ache. I missed them, but because of their absence, I missed me.
Chapter 6- Aftertaste
I woke groggy and disoriented. As I pulled on an old pair of old jeans and faded t-shirt I realized everyone else still slept.
I tiptoed down the stairs, listening for sounds from Mr. Stan or Hugh.
I slipped into my hiking boots and pulled back my hair. I gathered apples and dug sweet potatoes out from behind the pots and pans in the kitchen. Father always managed to find them regardless of where I hid them. I tried not to speculate why they were still there.
I washed the produce and tried to stay quiet as I cut them, not wanting to wake Mr. Stan in the next room. A frustrated sigh made me turn.
Hugh looked at the orange sweet potato chunks in annoyance while I stuffed halved, cored apples in the backpack. “What are you making?” he asked with concern.
“A snack.” I turned away from him to continue packing the food
“Those aren’t good raw. Where are you going?”
I pulled the backpack over my shoulders. He eyed my clothes as though I was an intriguing stranger. I wanted to tell him it was none of his business, but he was a guest in my home. My parents would become poltergeists if I was so rude.
“I need to find some friends and make sure they’re ok.”
His eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Can I come?”
I looked down to see the length of his pants. He could trip and the noise would scare them away. The canvas of his sneaker gaped around a large hole. “I don’t know. You didn’t bring any extra clothes and you’re not dressed well.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be careful.”
I smirked. “Fine.” I toyed with the idea of trekking him through poison ivy to wipe the arrogance from his eyes.
He grinned and let me lead him out the back door, across the yard, and to the line of trees. He followed the path I took without missing a step and let me pull back the prickly brush for him.
He stepped onto the fallen trees where I did to avoid the sinking mud and damning patches of three-leaved growth. I eyed him often, annoyed by his steady breath. Hair stuck to my damp face as I glared at him.
I hid my panting as I asked, “How often do you hike in the woods on my grandparents’ property?”
His laugh bounced off the trunks of trees as he grasped a wide limb and began to swing. “Not as often as I want.”
The light in his eyes and clip of his fast tongue reminded me of Mother when she was in one of her frighteningly ecstatic moods. His glow was more amusing than hers as he dangled and laughed.
It was impossible not be distracted by how nimble his movements were. He danced along the crumbling earth and jagged rocks across the wide, shallow creek with pure, unencumbered joy. As we dove deeper into the thick growth, memories of Father accompanying me along the same path frolicked in my mind. He always complained about the burrs in his slacks but refused to wear anything denim.
Hugh never said a word, even when I slowed. My steps became timed and delicate and he followed with precision. I balanced along the fallen tree until I had to climb, pulling myself onto the thick branch of another.
I was never coordinated enough to climb trees other than that particular one. Years of practice and a lucky strike during a hard storm years before lent me the perfect location to look down into the small grove.
I motioned for him to join me but to stay quiet as I pulled out the binoculars. I searched, knowing they would be hidden if their mother wasn’t near. I saw the slow movement of a sleepy fawn and handed them to Hugh, pointing.
He held them to his face and his lips parted with pleasant surprise as he found them. He grinned when he handed the binoculars back. I tucked them into the backpack to wait. His eyes followed my fingers as I nervously applied another layer of chapstick.
He watched me as I watched the speckled twins. We waited for an hour on the silent, thick branch. Together we listened to leaves whisper, examined small movements of life around us, and relished in the damp air. Quiet, heavy footfalls neared, making my heart thunder with excitement.
She hadn’t seen me in over a month. I worried she’d have forgotten me. The babies stretched from their spot in the brush, hearing her near. She stepped into view and laid on her side. The twins tramped toward her and nuzzled against her to nurse.
Tears stung as I soaked in the glory of life and love. I grabbed at the thick bark to balance on the branch. Guiding me by my waist, Hugh steadied me as I crossed over him to the propped tree beneath us.
Worry marred his features as I shimmied down the fallen trunk. I shook my head at him, telling him to stay. I needed him to obey me. She didn’t know him.
I let out the soft whistle before I touched the ground. It was the sound she grew accustomed to as a fawn. My steps were careful and quiet as I swept through the underbrush, feeling his eyes lingering on me as I moved.
I crept toward the tiny clearing, worried she would run. She never was as docile as her mother. When her pricked ears came into view and our eyes met she relaxed back down.
The fawns had yet to meet me. They were a week or so away from birth when I last saw their mother. They pulled away from her and flicked their ears. The tiny male stomped a hoof as they both hunched low, ready to mimic a response of fear.
I reached for the backpack and pulled out a handful of apples for them. Their mother watched me as though amused as I waited for the babies to inch closer. I rolled half of an apple to the male but he twitched away.
Their mother huffed and laid down her head as if to tell them to be polite. I grinned, knowing she spent too much time with me.
The smaller, female fawn licked at the apple as the other inched closer. I poured the remains of the bag onto the grass and watched as they nibbled, inquisitive and delighted.
I was careful to move slow and calm as I stepped around them to sit next to their mother. I smiled with pride, remembering her tiny face and excitable eyes at their age.
I laid out the sweet potatoes and she grazed them, happy for the treat. She allowed me to run my hand over her rough, reddish hair and whisper to her. She seemed to listen to my reason why I neglected her. I tried to apologize but she snorted in retort.
Her ears pricked and her head straightened. The fawns did the same. Their wild eyes rolled as they searched with bent knees, ready to run to safety.
Hugh still sat on his perch but stared down, his gaze following a slow movement. Even from the distance, I could see the source of his focus brought him a sense of distrust.
I stood and moved away from the deer, not wanting to give their location. I scampered toward my tree, trying to catch Hugh’s attention. A grunt came from below as I tripped over someone crouched in the grass.
“What the fuck are you doing, Olivia?”
I rolled onto my back and spat leaves. Beau leered above me. An urge to lift my boot and plant it on his face consumed me but he pulled away to stand and brush debris from his cargo pants. I glared around, not seeing his father or a rifle. I ignored the hand he offered and pushed myself to my feet.
I didn't want to yell and startle the deer but didn’t want to whisper and tip him off either. He could see the indecision on my face. His eyes darted around the shadows.
His lips curled at the thought of a fresh hunt. “What are you doing?” he repeated.
