Chapter 4
Henry Creel x OC
Chapter 1:
https://www.tumblr.com/eternally-yours-24/703765226065215488/chapter-1?source=share
Chapter 2:
https://www.tumblr.com/eternally-yours-24/790148023403577344/chapter-2?source=share
Chapter 3:
https://www.tumblr.com/eternally-yours-24/815091520297385984/chapter-3?source=share
"Where the hell have you been, young lady?"
My mother all but pounced on me when I came in. She must've been lurking in the living room, waiting for me. I realized I'd never heard that string of words before. I could be called an honorary recluse, so I'd never been scolded for staying out too late. I considered it a milestone.
"I was just next door," I said. This whole exchange was so surreal, I had to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. Because my mother obviously wasn't playing around. Agitated color stood out on her cheeks, and her lips were pressed into a thin, colorless line of disapproval.
"You should've called me, Christine," she said. "I was worried sick! And I saw you with that Creel boy." Her face twisted into a grimace of both disgust and pity. I hated that expression on her, that arrogant curl of her lip. It was hateful, reserved only for the most unfortunate in society.
"I've talked to his mother. He's a bit of an odd duck, I hear."
A sudden flash of anger tightened my chest, slapping away all of my former amusement like a brutal hand. And, beneath it, a kind of protective instinct. One misfit shielding another.
"That's completely absurd!" I snapped at her. I regretted my tone, but I was too worked up. "You don't even know him!"
Neither do you, my mind chimed in, but I brushed the thought aside.
"I don't want to see him here again," my mother said coldly. Her tone cut through my anger effortlessly, like a knife through butter. But I didn't give up, letting out a bitter laugh instead.
"Oh, really? You're the one who wanted me to make friends! And now I have one, and you still aren't satisfied! Of course!" Unhappy if I'm alone, unhappy if I have friends. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
"Not him," she said, through clenched teeth, briefly pointing her finger in the general direction of the Creel house next door, as if for emphasis. Then her tone lightened a bit, as if trying to reason with me.
"There are plenty of respectable children your age that you could pal around with. What about Carol, from across the street? She was such a dear."
Yes, a dear who pulled my hair, and laughed at my mismatched eyes. Who told me I'd fit in with the freak show at the circus. Mother always tried to set me up with people. I remember all the birthday parties she made me attend, just because the entire class got an invitation at school. All the times I sat by myself, unable to eat the cake, because everyone dug their hands in it.
All those awkward playdates she arranged. I'd be itching in a sundress she picked out, trying to interact with some other kid. Feeling as if I were dragging out every word, cutting them out of me, piece by piece, and wanting to go home, to dive back into my books, into fictional worlds that had become my refuge. Enduring until the hour had passed, and she came to pick me up.
I was done trying to force myself into a pretty little mold, carved by my mother, doctors, and teachers. It was like fitting a square into a circle. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't conform, couldn't become the perfect daughter she wanted me to be.
"I don't get along with respectable children. I never have," I said. I felt a lump in my throat, and I forced it down. I didn't want to cry, although unshed tears tickled my eyes. I refused to let it get to that point. Not again.
"They all think I'm funny. So do you." Her face crumpled at this last part, but I pushed on, desperate to get my thoughts out. "And you know what? Maybe I am."
I turned towards the stairs so abruptly, my skirt twirled around my legs. I ran up the stairs, blind with emotion, not slowing, even when my mother called out to me.
"Christine! Come back here right now!"
I ignored her. My vision became a watery blur, and I wiped away the tears with my sleeve. I didn't stop until I got to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me, with a kind of finality. The sound was like a shotgun blast, surely ringing through the house. I expected her to yell at me, almost wanted her to, to know I'd pushed her buttons just as much. Yet it remained silent on the other side of the door.
That ball of tension wound itself up in my chest, deeper, and I stifled a sob of frustration. It built up and up, like hot water rising, about to boil over, until it sat up at the base of my throat, a hot ache. At it's highest peak, that queer sensation came back over me—one of power, of possibility, burning just behind my eyes, revolving much like the hands of the grandfather clock. It was wonderful, as if some wave of euphoria swept me up, and took me to heaven. If I could harness that energy, and push outward…
Beside me, my desk rattled, as if shaken by a mini earthquake. My pens rolled off the edge and fell to the floor. At the same time, my lamp flickered, the electricity popping like a firecracker. Just like what happened at the Creel house.
I stared at the lamp, eyes wide, not moving, barely breathing. The light remained steady, glowing almost innocently. I could've convinced myself I'd made the whole thing up. Until I saw myself in the mirror hanging beside my bed.
Slowly, I reached up and wiped my nose, expecting the reflection to be an illusion. A trick of the light. But when I looked down, that smear of blood on my hand, that was real. Without a doubt.
Okay. Okay. You've got a bloody nose, so what? It's cold outside. That always dried your nose out in the past. Yes, it's that. Good.
The reasonable thoughts calmed me. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, until the white haze of anxiety, and lingering anger, calmed. I had no room for strange phenomena. Not after I just fought with my mother, which I rarely did. Not like that. It was suddenly too much, and I felt panic sinking its claws into me. I needed a distraction.
After a moment, I sat down at my desk—wary of the lamp—and opened up my notebook. The cover was worn, the pages dark and leathery in places, from my fingers brushing them so many times. But it was the wear and tear of true love. I'd been writing a short story for the past week or so. Nothing much, just around ten pages or so. I'd been working on it when I first met the Creels, and hadn't glanced at it since. It was close to being finished. I just had to put on the finishing touches.
Picking up a pen, I got lost in the story again, and the characters I'd created, who'd started to feel like old friends.
Later, when my mother knocked on my door, I didn't answer. I didn't come downstairs for hours. Dinner that night was cold, but I ate it anyway, and enjoyed it.
I almost forgot about the power, which had crept back out, before quickly retreating back into the shadows, as if too shy to be used. Almost forgot about it.
…
For some reason, I expected things to be drastically different, but they weren't. Not really. Alice and I still played games at the park, sometimes alone, but occasionally, Henry would be there. He wouldn't join in, but he'd read in the fort or on a bench. He even started to say "hello" or "goodbye" to me, or if I was lucky, we'd have a brief conversation. He loved to talk about spiders (and how clocks worked, oddly enough), but that was fine with me. I liked talking to him, no matter the topic.
I didn't expect him to morph into a social butterfly. That would be unfair. Because I wouldn't do that, either.
Five days after my fight with my mother, I waited for Alice to come get me, but she didn't show up on time. I sat down on the couch, reading and waiting. The doorbell never played its obnoxious little tune.
No matter how I tried, I couldn't get lost in the adventures of Frodo and Sam, and it was usually effortless. Finally, after twenty minutes, I closed the book, slipped a coat around my shoulders, and went next door.
The icy air whipped around me instantly. Above me, the sky was covered with a thick layer of clouds. This didn't surprise me. The weather has been both cold and rainy lately. My footsteps crunched when I walked over the fallen leaves, and for fun, I kicked a heap piled up in the grass. I watched the golden leaves scatter, then flutter back down. Then I moved on. Already, the Creel house emerged from between the bare, skeletal tree branches. I could see its pointed rooftops, reaching towards the gray sky.
The first red flag popped up in my mind. Victor's blue car was parked in the driveway. He was typically at work this time of day. Other than the howling wind, the house was silent, the curtains drawn over the windows. The porch steps creaked as I climbed them, very loud in the almost glassy stillness. No one came out when I approached the door. Slightly on edge, I reached up, and knocked twice, on the stained glass.
No answer.
I knocked again, more firmly, but still polite. When that didn't work, I rang the doorbell, pressing on the button twice. From inside the depths of the house, I heard the chimes, which lifted my spirits a bit. A normal sound in this eerie situation.
I waited, counting in my head, willing that gilded knob to turn. To see Alice's familiar face, or better yet, Henry's. But there was only the cold wind, ruffling the leaves, knocking the tree branches together like bones, leaving a chill on my skin.
I sighed. No one was coming. I turned to go, but the door swung open, just a bit. Half of Victor's pale face filled the crack, the visible blue eye bloodshot and paranoid, underlined with dark, bruise-like circles. It was as if he hadn't slept at all. I froze in my tracks, an edge of unease running down my spine.
"You can't come in here," Victor said, his voice like gravel. "For the good of your soul."
The edge sharpened into mild fear. I opened my mouth to speak, but he slammed the door in my face. I simply stood there, bewildered. The pieces refused to fit together in my head. What was he talking about?
Pondering this odd behavior, I decided to walk home. I didn't really want to see anyone. Curling up in bed with a warm cup of tea sounded much more palatable. These cozy thoughts calmed me, almost completely, until I reached the lawn. My eyes landed on a fuzzy lump in the grass. At first, I thought it was a pile of old rags, but with a second glance, terror struck my heart like a cold knife.
It was a dead rabbit, its bones snapped, contorting its body into unnatural shapes. The cavity of its belly had been torn open—burst open, like a shell—the slick ropes if its guts splayed out, like gruesome spaghetti. Its eyes were gone, too, leaving half-open sockets behind, crusted with dried blood.
My stomach twisted inside of me. I'd heard of small animals being killed recently—people blamed a wild cat—but I'd never witnessed it firsthand. This attack couldn't be from another animal. I'd never seen this kind of brutality before. A white worm oozed out from an empty eye socket, fat and juicy, from the nourishment of death.
And the germs, the diseases living in that rotting flesh…a whole garden of bacteria. And I was standing here, breathing that air…inhaling it into my body…oh god…
A switch flicked inside me, and I began to panic, but I didn't scream. The world around me dulled, and I backed away, as if in shock. I staggered to the porch steps and sat down, hard, my chest tightening, aching. I needed air, and gasped for it, my mind spinning. A sob swelled, and I let it out. Hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I took my head in my hands, as if to squeeze out the thoughts of sickness, of death, that ran on a loop. Oh but my hands…infecting my face, my hair. And that dead rabbit, that toxic greenhouse for germs. What if I'd touched it?
I cried, my breath shuddering. I felt on the brink of a heart attack, my fingertips cold, and tingling. I couldn't control the anxiety that bolted through me like lightning. Still holding my head, I leaned over, begging for it to stop, please, make it go away.
A shadow slid over the grass in front of me. I barely registered looking up. I saw Henry standing there, frowning. He only watched me for a moment, as I sobbed, and gasped for breath. Then he sat down on the steps beside me. He hesitated, then moved in closer, our shoulders nearly touching.
His presence, somehow, had a soothing effect. I began to calm down, and so did my brain, no longer like a runaway train. When my sobs reduced to sniffles, and occasional hitches of breath, he tilted his head at me, questioning.
"I'm okay," I said, my voice thick. I sniffled, my body aching, my cheeks wet and flushed. He just sat with me, patiently, until all my tears dried up.
"I'm fine," I said again, to convince myself. Henry nodded. My eyes were raw and sore. I wiped at them with the back of my hand. And I actually was fine, oddly rejuvenated, as if the flood of emotion purged some evil spirit from my body. Temporarily, at least.
My eyes met Henry's, both unsure of what to do with each other, at least at first. Then the idea hit me. Despite what just happened, I almost laughed out loud. Instead, I lightly tapped his arm. The first time I'd willingly touched someone else in months.
"Tag, you're it," I said, and bolted. The burst of spontaneity was ecstacy. At first, I assumed he wouldn't follow me, but he instantly caught on. He chased after me, both of us running across the street to the park, as if we weren't misfits, but regular children, playing a game together.
