When I enter my mother’s room, it is empty. But not entirely. Strewn all across the wooden base with eggshell-white walls were pieces of furniture, from a bed to a welting flower in a glass vase by the window. A desk, a rich mahogany piece was across from the king sized bed with comforters large and fluffy that made it appear bigger than it really was. The only thing it lacked was a person, whether they be standing by the mirror at the left wall, sitting at the mahogany desk, or propped up against the six pillows the bed had to offer. I was standing in the doorway. My breath was very shallow, light and quiet as if I would be unsettling any ounce of perfection in the room. But it was quiet. Settled.
When I brought my attention elsewhere, I could hear my mother downstairs running water over the sink and the occasional clink of a pot brought to my senses she was most likely cooking dinner. It would probably be some form of chicken, but not the flavorful herb-rubbed piece you would like- more of a dry, plain breast with maybe a sprinkle of salt served next to broccoli. We never went all out, making great family dinners from recipe books like other families did. It was simpler here. Maybe for the better.
I knew at that point my mother was well distracted. It had amazed me she had left her door wide open as opposed to the slammed shut way she usually did. And our house was old, built over 80 years ago, so there was no way I could get in quietly even if I wanted to. The door would have cracked and sputtered, groaning and creaking as I twisted the knob and brought myself inside. My mother had done a good job of keeping the house in full form, such as keeping the walls freshly painted to avoid cracking and dusting all the little crevices, but the doors were one thing. So when I saw hers, open carelessly, I knew it was my chance.
I slipped through the doorway, making sure not to brush up against the wall or knock the door in risk of it creaking. But after I made one step in, I knew stage one was successful. But then I looked down. The floor was wooden. And with the age of the house, a misstep could mean creaking right above my mother’s head. But I had lived here the entire sixteen years of my life. By now, I had managed to memorize where the beams were under what was visible of the floor. So carefully, very carefully, I slid a foot forward to where the end of the desk becomes level with the wall and followed with my other. Not a sound. I exhaled. Doing the same with the exact distance from the doorway to where I was now, I managed to step across the floor and miss ny open areas where a sudden creak would mean my mother running up the stairs and questioning me as to what I was doing in her room, and why I wasn’t working on my homework. I was not allowed in her room and never was. I always suspected she was hiding something, but every time I glanced in it seemed completely ordinary. Nothing out of place.
Finally, I took a deep breath and slipped onto the great big bed. I instantly sunk under the great mound of blankets and fluff, and it was settling. Right away, I wanted to lean back and close my eyes, drifting off into some sort of dream but I would not get that opportunity now. I had something to do. So I forced myself to stay keen and clear of sight as I looked the room down from ceiling to floor.
I began to search for something, just a little thing she may want to hide from me. But I was so distracted and my eyes could not leave certain things. The frames around the pictures. The vase the flower happened to be in. So ordinary, but so powerful. I notice straight away that they were just little things my father left behind when he passed away. And straight away I was amazed, for she had remarried a good for nothing bastard who ridded her with new items and apparel. But the part that shocked me the most was that a careless and empty soul could have possessed some sort of remaining love inside of her, some degree of strength to keep those little items in the house even after my stepfather demanded everything my father had gifted to us had to leave the house. That alone caused me to shiver and stare at the floor, eyes narrowed as I shook my head and squeezed the comforter in my hand.
A sudden noise jolted me back to my senses. I heard an uneasy shuffling coming from the floor beneath me where my mother would be cooking. I knew what it was straight away. There was an extra step of feet. Much, much louder than the feeble ones my mother had. It was my stepfather. And he was home early from work.
Instantly, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. He shared this room with my mother, and he always entered to throw his tie on the bed and change into comfier clothes. I knew I had to get out of here, fast. There were only five steps I would have to make, but if I ran then the floor would creak and he and my mother would know my whereabouts. Tears nearly sprang from my eyes as I quietly slipped from the floor. Right as I heard a foot hit the first groaning stair leading up to where I was. I stretched out my other foot, trying to get into the hall before he reached the top. But I heard my stepfather’s huffing and puffing, his hurried jog up the stairs, and straight away I knew it would not be possible for me to make it out. I managed to get two more steps forward, nearly out into the hall, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him, the great lumbering six foot four form of my stepfather. With his salt and pepper hair and muscles he looked like some old football player retired now and cooped up in an office to live his life out. And just the sight of him caused my eyes to get wide and me to nearly choke on my own breath.
And when the man reached the top step, he swung around to face my mother and his room where I stood, completely pale halfway out. I could tell by the way his face dropped and his jaw tightened that I was in trouble. I made no move to escape. I was caught. And I stayed in the exact position, uncomfortably frozen and now hot under the skin. And slowly, much slower than he did before, my stepfather crept up to the room and to the point where I stood.
“Hope.” He breathed, crouching so his face became even with mine. “What do you think you are doing?”
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t lock eyes with him. I was forced to stare at the welting flower as I struggled with my words. “I just thought-“
“Shut up.” He said, teeth clenched. He placed a giant and clammy hand on my chin and raised my face. My eyes widened even further, and I began to gasp for breath. “Don’t you remember me saying it’s off limits in here?”
“I just…” I stammered. “I only thought…” His hold on me was icy cold, and I closed my eyes. I knew exactly what was coming. It came every time something was. “Sorry.”
And there it was. I suddenly felt a great big force hit me on the side of my face and I didn’t even feel pain at first, only numbness. I fell backwards, slamming onto the wood as I lay dazed for a few seconds before the numbing changed to pain and just the feeling of it sent an adrenaline rush up my veins. I sat up, putting a hand to my cheek where my stepfather had slammed his knuckles into me. This was nothing new. By now, I was used to it. But every time, a little more of me died inside. My heart ached more than my jaw.
“Out.” He spat, pointing at the door.
I scrambled to my feet, heart racing as I ducked under his arm and turned right to where my room was. My hand was still covering the now burning sensation in my jaw, and my eye was streaming. It would be an ugly bruise. Something I wouldn’t easily be able to cover up.
Luckily, my room was only a few paces from my mother’s and was just to my left. Once more, I rubbed my hand over the spot where my stepfather had laid his hand on me. It was probably red now, but within hours it would fade to a shade of purple and blue- luckily only a dull color if it wasn’t too bad. At school, people were generally used to me showing up with bruises on my arms and legs- but not so often my face. I always used the excuse that I tripped or banged a limb on a table. I wasn’t sure how I could describe this one.
I made it into my room, and instantly glanced around even though I saw it every day. It was a general teenage girl’s room. My floor was white carpet, and my walls were painted a dark blue. On top, near the ceiling, were white holiday lights that were strung around. On the wall to the left was where my bed was, which was a combination of shades of blue, white, and yellow. My pillows were black and white sleeping foxes, besides two blue normal ones. A wooden nightstand was to the right of that, on the opposite side of the bed where my closet was, built into the wall. Other than that, there wasn’t much more to my room other than the quote that was painted on my wall in white paint across from my bed.
"Being on top of the world doesn’t mean anything unless you know what its like to be at the bottom.”
I got that put on after my dad died. My mother didn’t question it, she never cared. I don’t think she quite understood it either. I’m not sure if I had lived up to it either. I was at the bottom, sure, but I was yet to experience being at the top.
“Dinner’s ready!” I suddenly heard a yell come from downstairs. That would be my mother.
I wish I could have had some more time to myself, just a little bit to swallow a piece of advil to settle the rising pain in my jaw and move on. But now… now I would get the opportunity to sit at a table with none other than my mother and my stepfather. I was an only child. There was nobody else to come, unless we invited a guest over. Sometimes we had our neighbor, Tom.
I made my way down the stairs again before my stepfather did. Based off of the shuffling I heard though, I suspected it wouldn’t be long. At least we didn’t get to the head of the stairs at the same time and have an awkward, uncomfortable pause where we looked at each other, he would shove past, and that was that. Just looking at his eyes made me shudder. I remember when my mom first brought him home. At the time, I looked at him and saw nothing. But as he came and she married him- that was when the coldness came. When he changed. When I changed.
When I got to the kitchen after passing through another teacup white hall, I instantly made for the plates my mother stacked next to the stove. I grabbed one, a painted green thing with floral patterns and scooted over to the giant blue pot my mother had sitting on the stove. She was three feet left to it, grabbing a shaker of pepper I presumed. When I lifted the top of the bowl though, I was mildly surprised. It wasn’t just plain old chicken. There was chicken. But it was over noodles. Well, for my family, that was pretty intense. With the serving clamps that were in the bowl, I lifted some of the fettuchine onto my plate. But not too much. I didn’t eat all that much.
Because our table was never set, I grabbed myself a fork and spoon from a drawer and sat myself down at our wooden table in the room connecting to our kitchen. The chairs were comfy and woven, so I sat myself down easily and waited for everyone else to come. Based off of the two pairs of feet I heard, my stepfather made it down too. Well, ok. That meant I had maybe fifteen seconds before he would make some snide comment about my excursion on his room today.
I waited that entire time, not even touching my food. Hardly even daring to breathe, actually. And when my stepfather and mother walked into the room together, side by side, that was when I finally let my breath loose. It came out low and long, and a little too loud- which I noticed when my stepfather lifted his eyes from the table and brought them to me. A shiver ended up going down my spine as he did.
I lifted up my fork and began to twirl it around my noodles, but as I did, my stepfather’s rusty voice sounded out. “Hope was in our room.”
Thanks for that. I said in my head, not daring to say it out loud. I bit my lip, holding back. Based off of my mother’s widened eyes, I could tell this would be long. So, I sighed, putting the fork back down. “I-“ I started to say, but was cut off.
It was the buzz of my phone meaning I got a text. I waved a hand, looking down to pull the red iPhone from my jean shorts. Right away, I looked at who it was from, and that person came as a slight surprise. Mary. Mary was my riding instructor, and while we spoke often as I was her student, she never texted me after seven. But the message appeared short. I slid my finger across the screen, not glancing up from what I was doing. Once my phone brought me to my messages, I began to read. Need you at Pennington Ave. by the barn, It’s urgent. Fast as u can.
My eyes narrowed. Pennington? That was about five minutes from Candlelight Farms, where I rode. Candlelight was about ten minutes from my house. If Mary said it was urgent, then it really was. I would have to go. I looked up back to the table, where my mother stared at me quizzically. At first I bit my lip, but I would have to tell them.
“Look, I’m so sorry. I need to go. Mary needs me.” I told straight to my mom. If she was going to understand something, it would be Mary. They were close. Mary was like my second mother. “I’ll be back soon.”
I rose from the table, taking my plate with me. So what, I didn’t get a taste of the noodles, but I wasn’t hungry and they were most likely bland anyway. I spun around into the kitchen, setting my silverware and food in the sink. Normally I did the dishes, but not today. Now- I needed a ride. During the day, Tom, our neighbor would occasionally drive me around. But I knew a certain someone who was home tonight.
I went into my contacts, dragging down until I reached the T’s. There, I selected the name Theo<3 and dialed the number. Theo, Ted, Teddy, or Theodore- that was my boyfriend. Horses and Teddy were the few things in life I was sure I loved. He was a senior, me being a sophomore, but he was silly as a kid. That was I guess how we sort of clicked. I was quiet, almost dark- and Theo was the shining light. And he was different. He was a british boy, having moved to the states when he was seven. But he still had the accent. And the charm. And the vocabulary. And with his dash of brown hair and innocent green eyes, how could I go any other way?
He picked up straight away. “Hello babe.” He said brightly in his accent. “How’s your night?”
I couldn’t help but smile once I heard his voice. “So-so. Hey, is it ok if you play taxi for me?”
“Hmm, I think I can work that out. Rates go higher after six PM though.” He paused. “Oh, just jokin’. I’ll swing by in two.”
“Great, thanks Theo.” I said softly.
No problem. Love you, babe.”
I hung up the phone, taking a deep breath as I stood there. He was too good for me. At the end of the day, I complained, cried- and he sat through it all. He went from silly, happy Theo to understanding and ready to kick whoever hurt me Theo. I didn’t get it, honestly. Why he spent his time on me. Why he chose me, of all the tan blonde girls at my high school. He chose the medium height, brown haired girl with the bland hazel eyes and scarred inside and out.
Two minutes. Theo lived pretty close, over a bridge and a few streets down. It wouldn’t be long until he arrived, and I eagerly looked forward to that moment because I could easily tell both my stepfather and mother’s eyes were on me based off of the fact they weren’t talking. So I cowered against the wall, hopefully in a place where I would be difficult to see. But my palms were sweating, phone nearly slipping out of my hand. My foot tapped against the wooden floor, so soft it was nearly unnoticeable. I thought I would loose myself, but once I heard a honk from outside I knew I was good to go. Opening our front door, I slipped outside, becoming masked in darkness.
Theo drove a Kia. It was silver, so I could see it well enough in the poor light, and him having headlights on helped as well. I jogged out from my house, feet hitting wet grass as I made for the door beside him. I could see him there, in the car. He always had the interior lights on, so it was clear to see his grinning face and white polo he wore over his skin. At last, I made it to the car, and I swung open the door. I slipped onto the leather seat, sliding in easily as I closed the door after me and set my phone on my lap. I didn’t even get the chance to really settle before Theo’s hand shot out and started tickling me in the stomach.
“Th- Theo!” I called out. He grinned and began to stop. “I need to tell my taxi driver where I’m going, don’t I?”
“Yes you do, love.” He put the car in drive. “Destination?”
“Pennington Avenue, up by-“ I was about to finish when Theo’s foot slammed on the gas, and we shot forward. But as quick as we went forward, he brought it back down to the speed limit. That was Theo. Always up to his antics.
“Well Pennington’s the place with the great butty’s.” Butty was a british word for sandwich. Theo made sure to teach me this because of his love for food. “Is that where were going? You here to take me to get a sandwich? Because if so, Hope, I-“
“Ha, no. I wish. Mary wanted to meet me there or something.” I replied. “Not sure what it’s all about.”
“Oh.” Theo frowned, but I could see the glint of humor in his eyes. “Shucks.”