‘you look so pretty, pretty like the sun. I could watch forever while you shine on everyone.’
bella ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡ ࣪ reader & writer, aaron’s love, hunger games enthusiast, jo march reincarnate, poetry addict, lover girl obsessed with the stars, theatre & dance fanatic
main: @prettylikethestars
I’m currently closed for requests 🤍🤍 but I cannot guarentee anything to be published imminently, I still have a long to be written list (attached below) so sorry!!
I’m currently not writing due to exams but post june 15th I’ll be back xx
⟡ masterlist ⟡ to be written ⟡ most recent fic ⟡ taglists ⟡
synopsis: emmaline’s grandparents are friends of harris sinclair and there aren’t many people who can make that claim. it only takes one trip to beechwood island after for one summer for a little girl’s life to change forever through love and laughter and pain and suffering and all that’s in between. the sinclairs have a way of destroying lives as well as making them feel like pure sunshine
warnings:
a/n: this is going to be 5 part series, I hope you all enjoy and I’m so sorry for not writing in so long, I’ve had so much on my plate but I miss it and you all very much and thank you again for all your support!! <33. BTW this is unedited so feel free to tell me if there’s massive mistakes
taglist: @goldi-1-graysons-version @whispyedits let me know if you wanted to be added or removed or fill out this form
~ SUMMER 9 ~
I didn’t know as much as I thought I did in Summer 9. I was the smartest in my class at school and prided myself far too much for it. I suppose it wasn’t exactly my fault. Who was a little girl to question her belief in the showering of praise from all the people she trusted the very most?
In Summer 9 of my short life, I was smart academically but I didn’t yet know that the love I saw on movie screen and plastered over the pages of books wasn’t real, I didn’t know that people could be l cruel enough to manipulate you into getting what they wanted and I didn’t know how fatal revenge could taste after you inhaled too many of its fumes.
But I did know some things.
I knew my grandfather had a lot of money. The kind of money that clothed me in classy designer brands and took me to fancy dinners I’d spend revising forks for, that provided me with lavish birthday gifts and an inordinate amount of opportunity. My education, my holidays, my house, it was all a luxury.
I used to adore my grandfather. He adored me too. He was fond of telling me the story of how I used to sit on his lap when I was smaller than his pinky finger as he’d read to me. Of course I didn’t believe I was actually ever small than his pinky finger, I was too clever to fool for that.
He used to read me those big, thick, old, dusty classics. And he’d have to pause every second sentence to explain what was happening but he never once minded, he just loved to see that sparkle in my eyes. He’d always let me have a sweet from his secret tin after dinner, even if my mother forbade it. He’d tell me I was special and that I had a great future ahead, he’d take me places. Places now I realise we’re far too beautiful for a little girl to appreciate fully.
But I remember most of all loving his voice, it was smooth and calm. Nothing like my dad’s, that always seemed to hollow and cold, distant as if he was standing in the room next door all the time, trying to avoid me. Adults often think children don’t notice things like that, but I always did.
I was a lonely child, despite being surrounded by every material thing I could desire. Sure, I had friends, but they’d never be allowed into my house, to spend anytime outside the six blissful hours that allowed me to feel like a normal school kid.
It was only much later down the line that I learnt that it was my mother’s fear of people using me that hid me away from the real world. She’d been used and now she lived in fear. For the longest time I’d known my mother was an anxious woman and it’d bled into me too. I was an anxious girl. Always a little fidgeting too often, breathing a little too fast, thinking a little too much.
I was always so hell bent on being good. A good daughter, a good student, a good example. Something people could be proud of, someone students could be compared to, a worthy daughter that my mother could brag to her friends about. I wanted to sparkle.
But the praise I craved was always from the one person who would always hang me dry, leaving me hollow. So I became quiet, unusually quiet. My father always seemed quiet and I thought he might like it better if I was more like him. I didn’t know then he’d never be the father I needed him to be, no matter how hard I fought for it.
I didn’t have an unfortunate childhood, someone with as much money as opportunity I had would never dare say they did. But when, one summer, my mother lost her husband and lost her mind with him so my grandfather wanted to send me away to a little island where the sun was always shining, I didn’t argue. I got on the boat and kept my mouth shut.
I didn’t cry when my dad died, I cried with the weight of the guilt that I had for not crying. At the funeral adults crooned that I was a strong little girl, putting on my brave face, just how he would’ve wanted. They didn’t know that I was somehow emotionally numb to what was supposed to be one of the most horrible experiences of my life. Losing a parent has been likened to losing an arm or leg, you feel incomplete, hollow even. But I didn’t lose a parent. I don’t even know if I lost anything at all.
My dad was there physically but he never felt there. He was always a ghost, so the day his body didn’t show up at the breakfast table it felt no different. When he stayed at the house it was never for long anyway, everything mostly felt the same apart from my mum.
She went crazy. A level of insanity no child should have to witness. She was wracked with the most harrowing grief, locking herself away, not eating, screaming in the late hours of the night, ripping her hair out, indulging in the world of drugs and alcohol. I knew she wasn’t right but who else could I tell. I was a nine year old girl whose father just died and mother never revealed her true self to the public. On the outside she looked so porcelain perfect, no one would have believed me if I’d tried.
It was a blessing, summer 9.
My grandfather picked me up on a Tuesday. I’d done all the packing myself so nearly everything I owned was crammed into two little suitcases, too heavy for me to wheel down the driveway so he hand to carry it instead. My grandfather always smelt of coffee and old books. Familiarity, peace and order.
I remembered the journey to Beechwood so vividly. I was sandwiched between my grandparents on the boat over, dressed in a striped blue and white pinafore with ruffled sleeves with a puffy white shirt beneath. I’d complained so much about it but it was grandmother’s choice and no one told that woman no.
My grandfather was telling me on the journey over how I’d met the man who owned the island when I was a baby. I asked him how a man could own a whole island and he only laughed. Then he pulled out a photograph to show me.
My grandfather was in it and looked a little younger than now and was sat next to another older looking man. An infantilised version of myself was tucked snugly in the crook of one arm, in a bundle of blankets. The other man had a baby too, but she was sat up on the knee closest to my grandfather, tufts of blonde hair sprouting from her head. She looked sugary sweet as she shot the camera a gummy smile. On his other knee sat another little girl, she looked only a little older than the baby, nine months maybe. She had rosy round cheeks and the deepest brown eyes.
But what caught my eye was the baby-faced boy sat on my grandfathers leg. I was the only grandchild of my generation, my father had been an only child and my mother had only given him me. So who was this strange boy with white blonde hair and cheeky smile.
“Who’s that?” I pointed, eyebrows pinched together in tight confusion.
“That’s Harris’s grandson,” my grandfather explained, “Jonathan.”
“Why is he sat on your leg then?” I asked.
“Because Harris had three grandchildren and only two legs,” he chuckled in reply.
I giggled, the pointed again, “so who are the others.”
“Her name is Mirren,” he explained indicating to the smaller baby girl, “and this girl is Cadence, the eldest Sinclair granddaughter.”
“Like me?” I wondered aloud, the ghost of pride haunting my tone.
He nodded with a strong smile, “like you.”
“Why are we altogether?” I said.
“I went to visit him nine years ago with you,” he replied, there something sad about the way he said it, “your mother and father stayed here, they needed a break for a little bit. So I took you and I met his grandchildren when he met mine.”
“How come I’ve never met them since?” I questioned curiously, my vivid imagination already running wild with what-if scenarios.
“We haven’t visited and neither have they,” my grandfather replied matter-o-factly, “we’re all very busy. But that’s why we’re going this year, so you can.”
“They won’t even remember me,” I sighed, “will they?”
“No but they means you get to meet them all over again, make some lovely friends, doesn’t that sound fun?” he said cheerily.
I nodded but didn’t believe in the action, but I’d learnt sometimes you just had to blindly agree. It saved so much trouble and I didn’t like trouble.
That was the boat ride I ate jam sandwiches and filled in crosswords with my grandfather, the boat ride when my grandmother plaited my hair in six different ways and scolded me for putting my elbows on the table, the boat ride that I didn’t know would end up taking me to a magical place far far away and change the course of my life entirely.
***
The island was from the pages of a storybook, bright and synthetically perfect. Golden sand and turquoise oceans, jagged rocks and clear skies. The sun seemed to never stop shining.
I was helped off of the boat and onto a dock, a long wooden walkway that seemed to have been waiting for our arrival. My grandfather took my small hand into his as I shrunk behind him, some sort of fear stirring in the pit of my stomach with my jam sandwiches. My grandmother shot me a warning look causing my to shroud myself with my grandfather even further, tucking my body behind his leg and arm but still clinging on to his hand.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said gently, “these are good people.”
“What if they hate me?” I whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous Emmaline, shoulders back and chin up, you’re brave and you’re brilliant and you’re a Campbell and you’re going to let them know it,” my grandmother scolded
“I agree,” he nodded, “they’ll love you Emmy, don’t you worry.”
But I was worried. I had a gnawing anxiety in my belly that I just couldn’t shake. I didn’t know who these kids were or what they’d like, if they’d even let me in to their group. If my own dad didn’t even love me enough to look at me how could these kids?
My grandfather guided me forwards but I still shied away, slightly behind him. I fiddled with the hem of my dress, the repeated motion of stroking the fabric somewhat helping my racing heart.
A man dressed head to toe in an eye-aching white was walking down the dock, here to meet us. He looked old, wrinkles adorning his skin and white crowning his head but his eyes looked young and bright.
“Harris!” my grandfather called with a glowing grin.
My grandfather was usually serious man, he only seemed to glow when me or my grandmother were around. It always made me feel special. Maybe this man was special too.
“You’re looking well Charlie boy,” the man called Harris replied, entertaining a short embrace with his long lost friend.
“Not as good as you,” my grandfather stepped back with a nod.
“You never did,” Harris winked, something cheeky and boyish in the action which felt oxymoronic given his age.
My grandfather laughed heartily as my grandmother shook her head. Perhaps it was amusement or disapproval or something in between.
“Always the same Harris,” she tusked.
“Rosamund,” he acknowledged her graciously.
She kissed his cheeks with an airy gentleness, “it’s good to see you again.”
“And this must be little Emmaline,” Harris met my eyes and I flushed.
“Don’t be shy,” my grandfather coaxed, guiding me forwards once again.
I did as we’d practiced out of the boat. I smiled sweetly, extended my perfected poised hand and asked, “how do you do?” as perfectly as I could.
Harris beamed warmly, taking my hand and kissing it gently, “I’m very well thank you,” he nodded, “and you sweet girl?”
“I’m good too,” I said again, my cheeks warm with embarrassment and my hand retreated to my side. I hadn’t expected a question back. I hadn’t practiced for it.
“She’s a gem, Charles, really, so polite,” he mentioned to my grandfather as if suddenly I wasn’t there. I found that adults did that often and if you listened and stayed as silent as they thought you were, you could learn a lot, “much more polite than any of my grandchildren,” he rolled his eyes, looking of into the distance, “they’re probably off somewhere wreaking havoc, maybe Emmaline will sort them out this summer.”
My grandfather chuckled, following Harris’s eyeline, “How’s Tipper doing?”
“I’m not dying Charles,” came another voice, it was sharper, more astute.
I turned to see another woman. She looked younger than my grandmother, but had perfectly styled platinum hair and was dressed in a fashionable crisp pantsuit. She looked as though she could take over the world with a flick of her fingertips.
“Tipper!” my grandfather greeted her, “I’m very aware you’re not dying and far from it.”
“Then don’t speak of me as if I am,” she instructed regimentally, turning to my grandmother, “I don’t know how you survive with him.”
“I could say the same about you and Harris,” she replied, a rare twinkle in her eyes.
“I cannot for the life of me understand why we left it this long,” my grandmother replied.
She leaned in and whispered, loud enough for us all to hear, “I blame the men.”
“As do I,” her partner in crime agreed.
“Is this Emmaline?” Tipper asked, her hand over her heart as she caught my eye, “isn’t she pretty Rosamund, got that strong chin from you.”
I fingertips grazed my chin, as I took to cowering behind my grandfather.
“That’s about the only thing,” my grandmother scoffed, “she’s mostly her mother.”
“I don’t know I see some of George in her,” Harris said, “god bless his soul.”
My grandparents bowed their heads and I felt compelled to do so too.
“How’s she handling things?” Tipper asked as if I couldn’t hear the words coming out of her mouth under my hair.
“Well,” my grandmother replied swiftly and stiffly, “of course she was upset when appropriate but she didn’t crumble. Don’t be fooled by her dainty looks, she’s stronger than anyone thinks.”
I didn’t crumble because I didn’t lose part of my foundation. I lost a piece that had always disappeared anyway.
“A weapon in its own power,” Harris said.
A weapon. It was funny, I’d never thought of myself as a weapon. Not until much later on in my life anyway.
“We couldn’t even imagine what it was like to lose your Georgie, he was always such a good man,” Tipper said sympathetically.
“A good man lost,” my grandfather nodded, “but remembered.”
“We don’t need to dwell on it,” my grandmother said, whisking the conversation in a new direction. She was shifting the focus which meant she was hiding something. Adults did that a lot too.
“Why don’t you come with me Emmaline,” Tipper asked, extending her smooth hand, “let’s go and find the Liars.”
Liars? I didn’t want to meet any Liars. I lived with too many already. This was meant to be an escape.
“Go on,” my grandfather encouraged. His voice was soft and steady.
With trust, I shyly stepped out and took Tipper’s hand. It was somehow softer than it looked. I didn’t really want to go anywhere with this strange woman but I told myself that my grandfather’s judgement was just.
It was awkward at first, I didn’t know whether to speak or not. Tipper had this air about her that made you feel small, like she was the queen of entire world and you weren’t even a peasant. So I just followed, matching my leg strides to her long paced one, silently taking in the scenery.
It was surely the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. The sand stretched out like a gold-spun sheet with endless reams of sparkling jewels scattered throughout. The ocean was wild and free, crashing into rocks with something perfect about its incoordination. Its surface glistened, daring us to jump. The sun glorified it all, illuminating the art of perfection that lay beneath it, almost as if it were showing it off. I couldn’t wait until sunset, it was probably breathtaking.
“Do you like the island?” Tipper asked.
It took me a few minutes to register what she’d said and come up with an appropriate reply.
“I do,” I nodded, “I think it’s very pretty.”
“I’ve always thought so too,” she agreed.
“It’s quiet,” I mentioned, “I like that.”
Tipped hummed in reply, “it’s different, being in a beautiful place with people and being in one without. It makes you really see it, appreciate it, feel it.”
I agreed with her. When I was little I was lucky enough to get to visit expensive places but the people always took away from it. Loud and rude and bustling. No one stopped to take it all in and those who did couldn’t truly feel it because there was always some sort of human distraction.
“Who are the liars?” I changed the subject, the smooth down the curiosity that was nagging at me.
“My grandchildren,” she replied.
A simple answer but not the one I wanted, I pushed further, venturing out more than I usually would with a stranger, “why are they called the liars?”
“Because they like to lie,” she smiled, “and make mischief of this island. I’m sure they’ll like you.”
“I’m not very good at lying,” I shrugged, unsure of how else to a reply.
That was a lie in itself. I lied nearly every day, not that I realised it yet. It took me years to recognise that pretending and acting are just synonyms for lying.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be a liar,” Tipper told me, her eyes wise, her voice even.
She reminded me of a siren, she was calm and smooth and hypnotic.
“I suppose so,” I said as we came to an about stop in the middle of nowhere, “what are we doing?”
“Looking for liars,” she said wistfully, “there are always clues. They haven’t quite mastered tidying up a crime scene.”
I glanced around catching something in my peripheral, my eyes trailed sandy footprints, outlines of the bottom of shoes, multiple pairs all up the pathway leading to a house labelled Clairmont.
“There,” I said, “they’ve gone to Clairmont.”
“Seems we have a detective in the making,” she said, “let’s go.”
A detective who still couldn’t work out the mystery of why her father couldn’t just love her.
I followed Tipper down the now sandy path and into the house where it seemed the Liars had abandoned their shoes at the foot of the stairs.
I paused listening to see if they’d migrated downstairs but I couldn’t hear any voices. We climbed up the first flight of stairs, I took the left wing and Tipper took the write but neither came to any avail. Then we checked the second floor, another long hallway of empty rooms. Finally we got to a small unconventional spiral staircase, our last option.
“What’s up there?” I asked.
“The attic,” Tipper replied.
We paused upon hearing voices.
“I can’t find it Johnny!”
“Then keep looking.”
“But we’ve been here for ages!”
“Even I’m bored, can’t we just go and swim or something?”
“No.”
“We’re not even allowed to swim without an adult, you know how strict the mothers are about that.”
“I don’t know why it’s just the sea, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“If we haven’t found it within the next ten minutes then I’m leaving.”
“You have no determination.”
“I’ve had determination for a whole hour, that’s long enough.”
I climbed the spiral staircase, inches behind Tipper, until we reached a strong oak door. She didn’t hesitate or eavesdrop, just turned the handle and walked in.
We found them.
Four children looked up with guilty eyes. One girl was lying on the floor in a starfish shape, flat on her belly. She was lazily sorting through a pile of objects, often getting distracted by sparkly ones. There was another girl too, her eyes darted across bookshelves with expert precision, she knew what she was looking for. Her fingers trailed the oddly shaped ornaments as she scanned their decoration and size. The first boy I noticed was tucked just behind a sort of chest-looking wooden box, his knees almost touched his chest and he scrunched up. The piles of books beside him concealed the fact that he was actually reading one. But I could see, just about. The final boy was messily looking through great sacks of things, tossing unnecessary items behind him with little regard. He was focussed on some sort of self assigned mission it seemed.
Tipped folded her arms, shifting weight onto her hip with a sharp eyebrow raise making her look powerful, “What are you four doing here?”
“Grandad asked us to look for his golf clubs,” the blonde boy said smoothly, instantly.
I believed him in seconds.
“Oh really?” Tipper said, her tone standing on a thin line between amusement and scolding, “because he never mentioned golfing to me.”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” the girl on the floor smiled, resting her chin in her palms, her dazzling blue eyes, hypnotic like Tipper’s.
“Hmmm,” she continued, “it’s funny because you grandfather doesn’t even keep his golflclubs in here.”
“Are you sure?” the other girl asked, moving away from the bookshelf, “because I’m pretty sure we found them.”
Her eyes searched as she pointed to the other side of the room.
“I don’t see anything,” Tipper pursed her lips.
A dark haired boy quickly stood up grabbing a dusty old bag, metal clinked within. Surely they hadn’t pulled the lie off that well.
He thrust it towards Tipper. She took out one metal stick. It wasn’t a golf club just a metal pole sort of thing, maybe used for building. I couldn’t work it out.
“Nice try, Liars,” she smiled, I wasn’t sure if it was a nice smile or a smile of warning, I knew both, “but these aren’t golf clubs.”
“They aren’t?” the girl asked, brown eyes doubling in size, “I was sure they were.”
“Looks like a golf club to me,” the other girl nodded, going back to her pile of trinkets on the floor, pocketing what looked to be a paintbrush.
“Who’s that?” the blonde boy pointed at me, wrinkling his nose.
I shrunk away, not wanting to be noticed. I liked watching. I was an observer, an outsider, a spectator.
“This is Emmaline, a friend’s granddaughter,” Tipper explained, stepping away from covering me, “and she‘s come to spend the summer at Beechwood.”
“Why?” he asked, not looking too happy about that fact.
“Johnny!” the girl on her floor whacked his leg.
“What!” he growled, sending her a warning look, “I’m asking!”
“It sounds rude and my mommy-“
“Not this again Mirren,” he rolled his eyes, “I’m asking a question there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re getting sidetracked and making Emmaline uncomfortable,” the other girl said, before turning to me, “Hi, I’m Cadence.”
“Hi,” I smiled shyly.
“And I’m Mirren,” the shorter girl burst, rushing up off of her belly and forwards to join her cousin, “how did you get your hair like that?”
She admired my plait, making me play with the end subconsciously.
“My grandmother did it for me,” I replied quietly.
“It’s so pretty,” she complimented with a sugary sweet smile.
“Thank you,” I flushed.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Tipper said turning to leave.
“You still didn’t answer my question!” the blonde guy shouted after her.
“If it helps I don’t know why I’m here either,” I told him.
“That doesn’t help,” he scowled, his blazing blue eyes nearly setting me on fire.
“Johnny stop it,” Cadence growled at him
“Just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do,” he sneered back, arms folded.
“Actually,” she said, straightening a little with an air of importance about her, “that’s exactly what it means.”
They began to argue, a painful back and forth giving me the perfect opportunity to shrink away behind a large piece of furniture. I’d never had siblings or cousins but I’d been told it was common to argue, so I labelled it as normal. I slid further in, behind more furtinute when I bumped into something.
“My name is Gat,” the something said.
“Sorry,” I replied quickly, embarrassed, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Oh don’t worry,” he said kindly, “that’s okay.”
I was aware Mirren was now involved in Cadence and her cousin’s back and forth.
“They’re not usually like this I promise,” Gat told me probably sensing my hyper awareness or tension, “it just takes getting used to.”
“It’s okay,” I shrugged.
“So,” he began, placing a well worn copy of a classic I recognised on the wooden floor, “do you live with your grandpa?”
I shook my head, “no, he just brought me. I’m not sure why.”
I knew why. I heard the child psychiatrist suggest a holiday, a break, a change of scenery to take my mind off of everything, to fix me. My mother hadn’t left the house in months and wasn’t stable enough to, so my grandparents stepped in. But I wasn’t exactly going to push all of that onto a kid if just met, so kept it short and sweet. It was easier.
“I live with just my mom,” I explained.
“You don’t have a dad?” he said, looking worried.
The question should’ve stung, hurt, burnt even. I should’ve been choked by a wave of grief, my voice should’ve gone shaky, I should’ve looked away to reminisce.
Instead I held his gaze and gave a numb reply, “not anymore.”
He smiled sadly, brown eyes deep with chocolate melancholy, “me neither.”
“Really?” I asked, perking up.
He nodded, looking upset. That’s how I should be acting, like I had salt in my wounds, like the thought of him could bring a tear to my eye. I supposed I just wasn’t normal.
“Do you know how to play hang man?” I asked, not wanting to dwell on our conversation or my thoughts for much longer.
“Of course,” he replied, eyebrows pinched with confusion.
I grabbed the old crinkled sheet of unused paper and a random feather quill lying about the place.
“Let’s play then,” I grinned.
I went first. Cross legged, I tapped the tip of the feather on my chin. It tickled very slightly. I carefully chose my word, somewhere between easy and impossible. I could sense Gat was clever and I didn’t want him to guess the word too quickly.
_ _ _ _ _
5 stroke decorated the page, small and neat. I signalled for him to guess, leaning back. He took his time, he wasn’t like some other kids I’d played with. He was careful and considerate.
“A,” he finally decided.
A common vowel. Smart. I would’ve guessed it too.
“Yep!” I popped the ‘P’ and jotted it down.
_ _ _ A _
His eyes narrowed, as he went through possibilities silently in his head, “I?”
“No,” I replied with a smug sort of smile as I drew one line of shame to mark the start of a hang man.
I never realised what morbid games we teach our children until I grew up. A simple word game tainted with the drawing of a dead man, murdered by now a banned punishment.
“O,” Gat guessed again.
“Yes,” I huffed, slotting the letter into my spaces, “you’re good at this.”
“I just have a strategy,” he shrugged casually.
“Which is?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be a good strategy if I told everyone,” he grinned boyishly causing my eyes to roll left.
He soon whittled me down to only having two letters left and a half-drawn hang man. He still had a few guesses left and I was certain he’d guess the whole word soon enough.
O _ _ A N
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if the letters needed deep analysis.
“What are you weighing up,” I asked in my childish curiosity
“Options,” he mused, pursing his lips, a tell of his concentration.
“You want to guess all of it?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes but I’m not sure if it’s worth giving up the extra letters if I’m wrong,” he winced.
“Sometimes you just have to take a risk,” I shrugged, the words resonating with me a little more than I would’ve liked. If only I’d just been taking about a harmless game.
“I guess sometimes you do,” he nodded confidently, “okay, then your word is ocean.”
“Correct!” I giggled, filling in the rest of the spaces, “see, you should’ve gone for it earlier, I know you knew it before, you’re better than you think!”
“I guess but-“
The voices I’d been tuning out suddenly swarmed back in interrupting whatever Gat had to say. The game had ended and reality was starting to seap back in.
“I don’t want her in The Liar,” the boy insisted stubbornly.
I peaked over the top of the chair that had been sheltering me. His face was scrunched up, his expression clearly disgruntled and annoyed. He was probably used to getting his way. I should know, I was a rich kid too after all.
“Only because you’ll be outnumbered,” Mirren shot back, arms folded.
“We don’t even know her!” he fought back.
“We would be getting to know her now, if you hadn’t started this argument over nothing,” Cadence said.
“Don’t talk about her like she’s not here,” Gat said, standing up, “she’s one of us.”
I felt the impulse to stand up beside him.
“No,” Johnny scowled, “there’s only four liars.”
He held up a hand with four fingers, jabbing them into the air in some act a protest. But I was too used to the feeling of rejection that it didn’t hurt anymore.
“There’s room for more,” Mirren pressed.
“It won’t be the same,” he countered.
A grin spread across Cadence’s lips, “I think you’re just scared,” she teased him.
“I’m not scared,” he said defensively raising his voice. People raised their voices when they felt unheard or defenceless in any other way. “I just don’t like her,” he snapped, making direct eye contact with me.
I held his gaze hoping my silent message got to him.
You can’t hurt someone who knows what real pain feels like.
“You have no good reason,” Gat defended me, angling his body in-front of mine. I felt touched he could want to be this sweet so someone he’s only just met. I made a mental note that day that Gat was far too trusting for the real world.
“I don’t have to have a reason,” he insisted, like a boy who had been taught all the wrong values to be all the right things.
“That’s true,” I said slowly, “but maybe if you got the chance to know me you might feel differently.”
“Doubt it,” he grumbled, not daring to meet my eye again bringing me a slight sense of satisfaction.
“You’re not the leader Johnny, the Liars don’t have a leader,” Mirren chastised him, “and it’s three against one.”
“So you’re ganging up on me for someone you don’t even know,” he scrunched up his nose, distastefully, “what if she’d a thief?”
“I can assure you my grandfather has far too much money so I don’t need to steal,” I replied swiftly, coolly.
He walked up to me, puffing out his chest to make himself look bigger. I was a threat and he was refusing to admit it to himself.
“You can’t just come here and act like you own Beechwood,” he sneered, body too close to mine for my liking.
“I haven’t,” I replied bluntly, my deadpan tone flat and unbothered, “I was brought here by your grandmother who invited my grandparents and me to stay.”
“You’ve already got them under your spell,” he countered, thrusting a hand out to point at his cousins, “what are you, some witch?”
“Just drop it, we can’t waste our summer arguing,” Mirren groaned, “she’s a Liar now, get over it.”
“I don’t like her,” Johnny glowered, his face inches from mine, his stance vicious, his voice spiteful.
But I saw him for who he really was. Hurt people hurt people. I’d learnt that too.
“Well I like her,” Cady shrugged airily, “she’s one of us Johnny,”
One of us. How funny it was to be part of something that felt so big. And for the first time in all my summers of existing, I felt wanted. At least by some.
***
We were staying in the guesthouse built on the island, named Lockheart. I liked it. I found it funny how all the houses here had strange names, but it made them seem more personal, like they weren’t just houses.
It was a cosy house. The walls were a different colour and wallpaper in every room, there were picture frames and trinkets on shelves. The banisters twisted and turned, the furniture was mismatched, the bedrooms bursting with personality. A large bookshelf sat in the living space with well worn hardbacks sat in disorganised chaos. It was like everything not deemed perfect enough had been slung together to form a house for guests the Sinclairs never intended to have. But one man’s trash was certainly another man’s treasure because the moment I stepped in, I adored the quirks. My mismatched wardrobe and vanity, my multicoloured pillows, the three beanbags piled onto of each other in the corner, the view of the beach from my window and the star shaped lamp at my bedside. It was all glorious. It felt like I had my own palace.
My room at home was a military base. Everything was seamless to hide the cracks of the people that lived within its applauded foundation. My bed frame matched the wooden floors which matched the wardrobe, the bedside table, the desk and vanity. Everything was colour coded meticulously, so much so sometimes it seemed like some sort of optical illusion. I often wondered if that was how I fell asleep at night, my mind entranced by this forged perfection and I was cold out. Lockheart couldn’t have been further from my home and I couldn’t have loved it anymore for it.
Over the next few weeks the tension between Johnny and I didn’t ease. He’d look at me through narrowed slits of his eyes over the dinner table. He seemed to track my every movement when I was trying to have a good time with the Liars.He was smart about it, always played the right smile when the adults were watching but behind their backs I was target to his deadly stares. Not that I was intimidated, he had no idea what I was used to back home, he was nothing. But strangely enough, he didn’t say another word to me. Despite the looks it was like he didn’t realise I even existed.
My grandparents only stayed for two weeks. And over those two weeks I spent time with the Liars, though Johnny always seemed to make a point about them not really being Liars if I was around. We built sandcastles and played hide and seek, raced each other to the shore and back and hit balls with tennis rackets until our hands were sore.
It was the epitome of summer, like a dream I wouldn’t have dared to have dreamt. It took me so far away from my real life back home that I almost forgot I was a different girl in some far off land with a dead dad and mad mum.
Summer 9 made me forget, finally freed me of the gilded cage I’d been trapped in for so long but I couldn’t tell whether that was good or not.
I liked the Liars. I liked feeling part of something bigger than myself. I liked having friends that made me smile and braided my hair and cared what I had to say. I was having the summer of my life, of any young girls life. There was a sense of freedom, wild reckless abandon. I didn’t have to conscious or upright or on guard.
On the eve that marked our 2 week mark stay on the island my grandfather sat me down and explained I had a choice to make. He had to leave the island unexpectedly with my grandmother, I could either accompany them or spend the rest of the summer here.
The next morning they left on a boat and I waved goodbye from the dock. I’d tasted freedom and it was syrupy sweet, an addiction, a guilty pleade fast falling into necessity. And I sure as hell wasnt ready to give it up.
***
Tipper suggested I move in with Penny and Cadence, not wanting me to be alone so I transferred most of my belongings to Windemere by noon.
Windemere was quaint, an air of polished precision about parts of it that made it seem also sterile. It reminded me of Penny, uptight, orderly, stern. Penny was a white couch, a fresh manicure, a cashmere coat. She was perfected and sleek. She scared me.
Even the furniture seemed scared to be too comfortable. I remember the first night I slept on the mattress in the spare room, it was almost rigid and made my back sore.
What made up for the lack of Lockheart which I very much was kissing was Cadence. She was a good house mate, although so difficult to wake up in the mornings. Penny was usually out on a run when I awoke so I got Cady up almost every day but that girl was one deep sleeper. No matter how many times I said their name she’d barely budge. Actually she wouldn’t even respond, not a twitch or flinch. Though as much as her sleep habits contributed to my morning burdens, we became close in a way I didn’t know was possible for me. We spent so much time together, learning all of the stupid meaningless little things about each other; favourite ice-cream flavours and dream wedding dresses. I liked sharing clothes with her, sometimes we’d switch out jewellery or dresses or shoes or bags, it was like a fashion show every morning.
Cadence was talent and sparkle and fire. She was the big sister I never knew I needed, a missing piece in the giant jigsaw puzzle of my heart. We’d sneak into each other’s rooms most nights for company, a fairytale story or to trade some schoolgirl gossip from our real lives. We’d fall asleep mid-conversation sometimes, no idea where we’d left off by the next morning. She was a good talker but an even better listener. Cady made me feel seen and heard for the first time in a long time, she made me feel understood despite the fact I didn’t disclose anything about my home life to her. It got to a point where her presence calmed me, soothed the restlessness in my soul, made me forget,about the real world.
***
But the real world had always had a way of seeping back into my head, drowning my light with ebony memories. It was the worst at night, especially when Cady was asleep. She’d seen me have a nightmare once, I’d been talking in my sleep apparently, jerking around. She told me she hadn’t understood what I’d been dreaming about but suspected it was a monster. She was right, a monster with a human face. From then on I made sure she fell asleep first so she’d never see that again.
I’d had trouble with sleep for many years now and no matter how many sleep doctors and child hypnotherapists they took me, nothing worked. I still had nightmares, my body still wasn’t resting properly. It made me feel like a broken toy no one could fix. I’d sit in sterile rooms on uncomfortable couches, knowing exactly what words I’d hear next; sorry we just can’t help her, we’ve tried everything. My father hated being told no.
I shuddered seeing his face in my mind. I rolled over and found Cady sound asleep, her blond hair splayed about the pillow, collecting in a halo. She was an angel who deserved to be saved. If Icarus fell to the flames then she would rise from them, I was sure. I tiptoed from the room in my slippers and pyjamas, feelong a familiar ache to find my grandfather and curl into his arms. He always knew what to say in the late ours of night to soothe the blaring buzzing in my head and calm me enough to sleep. But I was reminded he wasn’t here as I stared at the empty dark hallways.
Some kids my age would be scared of hallways like these, spooked by non existent demons made up by their mind, but my demon lived with me. I knew I had nothing to be afraid of. I made it down the staircase, going to turn into the kitchen for a glass of water when the front door called to me. Its sturdy frame and metallic door handle cried out my name and I didn’t even think about it. I was there and then I’d left.
The night’s air was crisp and cool. There was a breeze that ran empty fingers through my hair and kissed my rosy cheeks. I walked with no idea where my feet might take me until I ended up inside Lockhart, in my grandfather’s bedroom. It smelt like old books and coffee. Before I knew it I’d kicked off my slippers and had clambered onto his side of the bed, letting myself fall into his makeshift embrace. I don’t remember my body moving or any signal between my brain and limbs in that moment. It was so automatic and instinctual that I had no power.
My chest hurt and my throat throbbed in a steady rhythm. I inhaled his sense, grieving the absence of my grandparents, grieving the sense of loneliness is grown used to, grieving the love I’d never been given enough of. My body began to grow heavy, my eyes tired. I fought sleep with a rusty sword and a weak swing.
Everything was changing. I’d lost one parent and now the other was slipping away. I’d been invited here but not wholeheartedly welcomed. The juxtaposition of it all sent me spiralling.
But before I could immerse myself into that mental state, I heard a rustling. Not uncommon, it must’ve been the wind so I remained curled up, invisibly wasting away. My body wilting, shedding, bending, breaking.
Until I heard footsteps. I jolted upright, panic seizing my throat. No one was calling my name, they weren’t here looking for me. Someone was in this house.
There was a wince worthy clang and I shuddered, not knowing whether I should dare to move or not. My fingers shook violently and my teeth chattered despite there being no draft or chill, the window was closed. There was a loud thump on the other side of the wall and I scrambled up. The worst possibilities flew to my mind as I flung open my grandfather’s beside draw, feeling around for something to defend myself with. One of his great, old Dickens original hardbacks sat proudly in the middle. I snatched it up, my arm muscles protesting. Biting my lip, I braced myself as I slowly crept down the hallway. Towards the belly of the beast.
The door was ajar. I pressed my body up against the wooden oak and tried to peak in but my victim was behind the door. My palms were sweating, the book was slipping, my heart was pounding. I could hear mystery person looking through draws and boxes, grunting in frustration when they didn’t find what they wanted. I said a silent prayer and slipped in, holding the book above my head in as a defence mechanism.
“Are you seriously threatening me with a book?” came an incredulous voice, “reading isn’t scary you know.”
Shocked to see Johnny Sinclair, crouching in my former bedroom, one hand still in a drawer I hadn’t quite taken all of my things out of yet, I almost dropped my weapon.
“I was going to throw it at you,” I grumbled, lowering it as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“But you haven’t,” he pointed out, dusting invisible dirt off of his hands as he stood up
“I thought you were an intruder,” I shrugged, hugging the hook to my chest, “that’s all.”
“On a private island?” he sniggered, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t know!” I protested, “I just heard something and panicked.”
“Why have you been crying?”
The question was so out of context I nearly gave myself whiplash. My fingers instinctively tentatively touched my cheek. I hadn’t even noticed, but my face sure was damp. And all of the sudden I felt very very stupid.
“What are you doing here?” I countered, ignoring his question completely. He didn’t need to know, I didn’t want to admit it.
“Well I didn’t think anyone was going to be in here,” he scoffed, shutting the drawer with his foot.
I shifted my weight onto my hip taking the stance of an annoyed mother, “that’s doesn’t explain it.”
“I was taking a look around,” he replied.
He wasn’t. That much was obvious. Someone taking a look around did so calmly, he was rushing, frantic, searching. But if I hadn’t known all of that I would’ve believed him in a heartbeat. No wonder he was a Liar.
I narrowed my eyes, “It’s not your house,” I said, my tone clipped and sharp.
“And news flash, it’s not yours either!” he shot back.
“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes, annoying yhat technically he was right, “just get out and don’t come back, I want to be left alone.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to be here alone,” Johnny replied, his voice laced with the most aggravating kind of amusement. I wanted to rip the smirk off of his face and throw him out of the window.
“Neither are you!” I burst.
“Yeah well,” he shrugged leaning back on a wall with a laissez-faire attitude, “why were you crying?”
“Why’d you care?” I snapped, all my guard up: the ice walls, the metallic spikes, barbed wire, the fortress weapons.
His face softened and for a second I forgot how intimidating it looked when he was angry and realised for the first time that he was just a kid like me, “I’m not a monster you know,” he said slowly, almost fearfully.
“Really?” I seethed, “because this is the first semi-nice conversation I’ve ever hard with you.”
He fell silent, looked solemn. I almost felt guilty until my brain flagged up all the times he’d made me feel unwanted or stupid.
He dared to meet my eyes and for a moment the two of us just stared. I’d never realised quite how alluringly blue his eyes were. They sparkled like the sapphires on an ancient broach both our families would fight at an auction for. There was something about them that nearly made my heart ache, I wanted sink and drown in there depths, as if they had a siren song’s hold over me.
Johnny held out his hand to me, “Come with me.”
“Why should I tru-“
“Just do it,” he cut me off abruptly, then his voice softened, “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Everything in my head was telling me to walk out but nothing on my heart listened. I don’t know what it was within me but I just went. His palm was warm and slightly sticky with sweat in mine. But I held it anyway. I held it and I trusted it. He guided me gently towards a spiral of stairs I’d never dared to go up after my grandfather told me not to when we first arrived. I stopped my the foot, hesitating to move any further.
“I’m not allowed,” I backed away, but his palm was already pressed against my back as if an escape wasn’t possible.
“You are now,” he smirked, looking proud of himself, “it’s dark, everyone’s asleep and no one’s going to find out. Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”
I was. And it annoyed me that he knew I was. Shaking myself from any aspect of his grasp I trudged in front and up the stairs, taking one step at a time up the dizzying spiral. It was only when I reached the door did I stop. Something in me paralysed and I suddenly felt so alone. It wasn’t until Johnny leant over me, his chest brushing my back that something shifted and I felt that burning surge of courage, a fearlessness that had never been me.
He took the lead, a position he seemed natural in, stepping out in front of me to reach the handle and open the door. A cool breeze kissed my damp cheeks and aching eyes, making, my hair dance in wispy movements. I let my feet guide my body as they inched onto the surface beneath me. It was hard and concrete but I was too busy to notice, my eyes pinned to the sky. The night engulfed every part of me and I wanted to fall to my knees before it. Every fraction of pain in my entity dispersed, evaporated into the sweet air and burnt into the gems in the sky twinkling at me.
I’d never been on the roof of a building for but something about it was freeing. I wasn’t caged in by a gate or constrained by claustrophobic walls. If I wanted to I could fall, if I chose to I could sit precariously on the edge, if I was stupid enough I could jump. It was dangerously delightful and my brain was soaking up the adrenaline rush with a crazed greediness. Like I child who’s never tasted chocolate put in the centre of a sweet shop and told to do whatever they pleased. It had been a good ten minute before I even noticed Johnny laying out a plaid blanket that I hadn’t realised he’d carried up with us.
“What are you doing?” I asked incredulously, when I finally glanced his way.
He patted the blanket beside him, “come.”
I did. I just did.
I laid down next to him, close but not too much so. Our limbs seemed to repel each other, never touching, but always coming close enough to. In my eye-line were the stars. They were beautiful and I adored them much more than I wanted to let on to Johnny. Sparkling dots decorating the ebony sky, a world of light on a sea of darkness. Each seemed to smile or wink and glint extra bright when my eyes skimmed over and over and over them.
“I come here sometimes,” Johnny admitted quietly, the sentence born of a long sterile silence between us, “when you look at the world from this point of view it seems less… scary I guess.”
I was quiet.
He was choosing to open up. His words felt raw and real, as if this was Johnny and the boy I’d met two weeks ago was a different person entirely. There was an emotion other than hate in his voice, his face was relaxed and feature gentle. I saw him. Really saw him. It felt vulnerable. Then I felt vulnerable. And it hit me, he was asking a cryptic question by letting me in, hoping I’d do the same. And to his surprise as well as my own, I found the words finding their way past the lips I’d sworn I’d press shut.
“I miss my home,” I sniffed, a white lie, “and my grandparents, that’s why I’m upset.”
It felt ironic, lying to a liar. I wondered if he knew my tricks and could see through them.
I wasn’t ready to be honest yet. I wasn’t ready to be transparent, he didn’t get the right to read me, to understand me and my head after how he’d treated me. My trust still wobbled on feeble legs, like a foal trying to walk for the first time. How did I know this wasn’t some sort of ploy to get me to open up, to then use that as power against me. I was young but not naive. I’d learnt how valuable trust was, thanks to my parents.
“I miss home too sometimes,” Johnny told me, “but we have so much fun on Beechwood you kind of just… forget.”
This wasn’t Johnny. Not the one I knew. That stark contrast was unnerving. How could a boy so young be practiced in so many masks, how could he completely flip his demeanour and personality.
I stared at him, “why are you being nice to me?”
“Because you’re upset,” he shrugged, as if it were obvious. The dried tears on my tears felt as though they were pulling my skin taut.
“But you hate me,” I blurted out before my brain had time to filter my mouth.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, “I think you’re smart and funny.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, shooting a quizzical look in his direction, “really?”
He grinned and nodded, “way more funny than Gat or Cady.”
“What about Mirren?” I asked curiously.
“Well she’s my favourite so you can’t be better than her,” he said.
I glanced over and met his eyes, “Is it because you want to marry her?”
He laughed, “ew no! She’s my cousin!”
“In the olden days they used to marry their cousins,” I pointed out.
“We’re not in the olden days,” he replied with a swift eye roll.
I sighed. Not even knowing I needed to. Pent up emotion was making my chest so tight and that release was bliss.
“My grandparents left now,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, “it’s just me.”
“You’ve got the liars,” Johnny pointed out.
“You didn’t even want me to be in the liars,” I shot back, a low blow I was more than willing to shoot.
“I did,” he replied, sitting up.
I followed, crossing my legs, “no you didn’t.”
“I was testing you,” he shrugged.
My eyebrows shot up and eyes widened, blazing with a fiery annoyance, “Testing me?”
He nodded, “my grandad does it to me sometimes. I wanted to see if you would be a good enough liar and you passed.”
He said that as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it was his normal. Maybe he lived with the kind of mind that thought everything was a game or test or competition. Maybe he just presumed everyone saw the world like that too.
“Why were you so mean to me for so long then?” I asked, something clipped in my tone.
He looked apologetic, almost guilty, “I’m sorry.”
“That didn’t answer the question,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” he blew out a breath, ignoring my eye contact and laying back, “but I guess once I started I didn’t know how to stop, it’s like there wasn’t an off switch and it felt weird if I was suddenly nice.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” I quipped sharply.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “if it makes you feel any better Gat hasn’t stopped scolding me for it.”
I laughed airily, lowering my back down too to join him lying on the blanket again, “he’s sweet.”
“Honestly he sounds like my mom,” Johnny wrinkled his nose.
“Maybe you deserved it,” I stuck my tongue out playfully.
He grinned back but grew serious as he admitted, “I do.”
We stumbled into a silence, not inherently uncomfortable but like there were things hanging in the air waiting to be said. I began counting stars, something about them fascinated me. Where I lived the nights were never this clear and when they were I wouldn’t be allowed out to catch a glimpse of something so beautiful. I was a girl with every materialistic thing in the world who just wanted to look at the stars. How ironic was that.
Johnny cleared his throat, sending a jolt through my spine, awakening me from my trance of adoration.
“My dad,” he began shakily, “not Ed, my real dad,” he paused, “sometimes he was a bad guy and I think I get my bad parts from him.”
“We all have bad parts all of our own,” I shrugged from the naiveness of my nine year old brain, “it’s just a choice to act on them I think.”
I’d met Ed. He was just as lovely as Gat. Sweet and pure and insightful and understanding. I couldn’t imagine Johnny with another father figure especially not like the one he was describing.
I didn’t know then, if it was right to call my dad a bad guy too. He’d not done anything bad but that was the problem. He’d not done anything. But I had a feeling Johnny’s bad was different to my bad.
“I guess,” he said trailing off, “I just get scared I’ll get as bad as him, like when I was horrible to you, it didn’t feel like part of me, it was like a whole different Johnny.”
“Then,” I said slowly, gently, “I look forward to meeting the better version of Johnny.”
Hope glittered in his eyes and radiated the blood that pulsed beneath his face, “does that mean you forgive me?”
I nodded, “I forgive you.”
I had always forgiven too easily. It was only when forgiving someone exhausted me that I forced myself to stop.
“You’re a real nice person you know,” Johnny told me with a soft smile.
“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks flushing involuntarily.
“I wouldn’t have forgiven me,” he admitted, eyes tracing the stars now.
I watched him with a fascination. He was confusing and bold and kind and daring. He was a mix of all of the worst and best parts of people, a combination of humanity.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I said quietly, “but third chances are the things I don’t give.”
“Smart,” he shot a wolffish grin my way, then paused, “so we start over tomorrow.”
“Like I’m meeting you for the very first time,” I nodded.
We didn’t say much more as both our eyes drifted to the bejewelled night sky, letting it allure us closer to a world of dreams. I was just drifting off to sleep, my cheek pressed against Johnny’s shoulder, when he shook my gently awake and helped me sneak back into Windemere. I was guilty of clambering to a window and watching him get back to his own home before I finally got back into bed and fell straight to sleep.
***
I came down to breakfast the next day dressed in a sweet pink skirt and white blouse that Penny had set out for me. I greeted Gat as I sat at the table with Cady but didn’t say a word to Johnny, after all I ‘didn’t know him.’ I took a sip of water from my glass and caught his eyes.
“Hi,” Johnny grinned up at me, offering a hand to shake across the spread, “my name is Johnny.”
“I’m Emma,” I said, flashing a dazzling smile of my own right back at him.
Gat stated at us with a very weird look slapped across his face before slowly leaning towards Cady, “is it just me or this weird?” he whispered.
She nodded, with wide eyes. Her fork was still, jabbed into a pile of pancakes, “very,” she muttered.
Gat turned his attention to us, “What are you guys doing?”
“Meeting for the first time of course,” Johnny replied cheerily.
I laughed, taking a bite from my plate.
“I’m not even gonna ask,” Cady shook her head digging her fork into a perfect cube of cantaloupe.
He looked at me like I was the only one in the room, like Cady and Gat hadn’t just questioned us, “do you have a favourite colour?” he asked.
“Purple,” I replied, pink-cheeked and cheery eyed, “but not a dark purple, the light dainty kind, how about you?”
“Red.”
He was sure. Sharp. Confident and Bold. Johnny Sinclair was the colour red. A colour of complexities and complications and oxymorons and opposites. Johnny Sinclair was the colour red.
Before I had time to reply, Mirren arrived at the scene, rubbing her tired eyes as her mother fussed over Taft and the twins.
“What are we doing today then?” she yawned, plopping herself down beside me and helping herself to some pancakes until she was met from her mother’s warning stare across the table. Tentatively she put one back and replaced it with two spoons of fruit.
“I’m voting swimming,” Cady chimed in.
“No,” Mirren groaned, “swimming’s fun for like five minutes and then it’s cold and wet and horrible.”
“Come on Mir, where’s your sense of adventure?” Johnny teased, poking his tongue out.
“There’s nothing adventurous about taking a dip in the ocean,” she scowled in return.
“How about board games?” Gat suggested.
“The sun is shining, it’d be a waste,” Cady sighed.
“We could bring them outside,” he offered, looking too hopefully.
“Yawn!” Mirren sighed quashing his starry eyed dreams, “I want to do something exciting.”
“Hence swimming,” Johnny rolled his eyes.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said with a shy smile.
His eyes met mine and confidence surged through me, “go on,” he nodded, a bubbling encouragement.
“Why are you being so nice?” Mirren scrunched up her face towards him.
“It’s todays biggest mystery,” Gat told her.
“They’re acting odd,” Cady filled in, nodding towards Johnny and I.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I shrugged.
“Neither,” Johnny replied, amusement lacing his tone, “anyway Emma please continue.”
“This is so weird,” Mirren mumbled
“Okay so there’s this game I once played,” I began.
It was a lie, I’d never played it. Some characters in a book I’d finished a few days before I’d come to island had though and I liked to believe I lived through them vicariously.
“We each pick a random name, from something like a hat, so each one of us ends up with a name from someone else in the group,” I explained, “then we have to take an item that belongs to them without them noticing and hide it for as long as we can. It’s your job to figure out who stole your item and what item they stole but you only get two chances on confrontation, so if you fail on both you’re out. The last person left with their thievery unguessed is the winner.”
“That sounds so fun!” Mirren burst
“I’m in and I’ll warn you now I will come out victorious,” Cady grinned wickedly.
“We’ll see about that Cady because I’m in too,” Gay nodded, “sounds great Emma.”
“I like it too,” Johnny nodded in approval, “an expert plan from the newest member of The Liars.”
Mirren’s jaw dropped, “okay what in the world happened? Did you hit your head Johnny? Did the ground open up last night and we didn’t noticed? Have you been switched with a less evil twin? Did your mom yell at you or something?”
“Enough,” he chuckled wavering her off, “I’m making amends.”
“Somewhat,” I teased.
“Careful don’t test me,” he quipped.
***
I glanced at the name on my paper. Mirren. I smiled to myself. From weeks of observation I knew that Mirren’s mind was chaotic, wild, free. That would be translated in her space, things would be messy and therefore easily lost. That was my ticket to winning. All of us Liars slipped away in different directions so I took the opportunity to go to the back of Cuddledown and sneak in through the back door. I was thrilled to find nobody home and immediately snuck up into Mirren’s room in search of something.
It was different to how I’d imagine, instead on bubblegum pink the walls were a sterile white, the bedding was creaseless and all surfaces sparkling. The room looked hollow, furniture was all that gave it a touch of life and yet still it felt dead inside. My fingers grazed over items on her vanity, all neatly organised into colour coordinated rows. Everything on the surface level looked tidy, but I opened one drawer and Mirren’s messy mind spilled out. I began to notice that all of the energy and bubbly personality was hidden beneath the staged and seamless exterior. Her mom probably only took notice of how the room looked, not its contents, maybe she didn’t even bother looking in drawers, hence the cleanliness of the outside and the chaos of the inside.
I waded my way through drawers of keepsakes and trinkets, notebooks and journals, hair ties and clips when finally I found something perfect. Her art drawer. It was a state. A calamity of felt tip pens and coloured pencils, a riot of paintbrushes and oil pastels, a dispute of lead and blending stumps.
My eyes scanned everything before I touched any of it. I knew what I wanted. Carefully my fingers tentatively slipped against a cool, almost metallic object. I expect my slid it out attempting not to change any of the drawers original look despite my stolen good being under everything.
I fiddled about with a few of the other drawers, just to pull her from the scent, messing things about. Swapping items and leaving some turned upside down or on their sides. I left the room, smiling to myself knowing I’d purposely left her beside drawer open slightly as well. No on said anything about playing dirty.
I slipped out of Cuddledown unseen, glancing down at the little secret in my palm. A tube of blue paint. She’d never guess it.
***
I kept an eye out for anyone too suspicious but to my disappointment I didn’t run into any of the Liars on my way to Windemere. I was even more surprise when I didn’t find Cady already in there searching for her item and wondered where she might be.
Still, I was on a time crunch. I needed to work out what was stolen and who stole it as fast as I could. I wanted to be victorious.
I was an organised soul so I was almost certain I’d notice if anything was missing. I searched through all of my drawers two times over, under that one loose floorboard and beneath the bed but not a single thing was missing. I stalked through my wardrobe but it was almost as if it hadn’t even been touched.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Gat was my first hunch, he seemed as though he would be clever enough to take something without me noticing but I don’t know if he’d have the heart to go though with it, even if it were just a game.
Cady had the brains and the drive to win but how did she make everything so precise? She wasn’t conscientious enough and everything to eerily exact. Maybe it wasn’t a belonging from my room. I had books of mine in Clairemont, a dress or too in Cuddledown when I’d lent Mirren one. I made it my personal mission to search every inch of the island, because my room had just been too perfect for anyone to have tried to take anything from there.
In my rush, I managed to run smack into someone. The impact stole my balance and sent me falling backwards a little. I felt a hand grab my wrist and gently pull me back up to normal.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, regaining composure and smoothing out my dress.
“Don’t worry.”
The voice was familiar and sent an odd warmth I didn’t quite understand spilling all through the pit of my stomach.
“Found your culprit, sunshine?” Johnny asked breezily.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I smirked, “what’s with the ‘sunshine’?”
He tilted his head to the side, “you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I bit my lip to hide a smile.
“You remind me of sunshine,” he said, almost shyly.
“Is that a good thing?” I wondered aloud.
“I like the sunshine,” he shrugged.
“Then I’m honoured,” I grinned, “what about you? Have you caught your thief?”
“Mhmmm,” he nodded, “Cady thought she was being slick with the tennis ball but she needs to work in her poker face.”
I internally groaned. He’d beaten me in finding his person which was incredibly annoying. I’d made up the day so surely I should be the best at it. Still, he had unintentionally given me a clue. Cady was not my thief so I could rule her out.
“You seem annoyed,” he narrowed his eyes.
“You would be mistaken for thinking so,” I replied swiftly, “anyways if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”
I turned on my heels and walked away trying to find the next right direction. I didn’t know what exactly I was doing but I knew I needed to get away from Johnny.
Distractions weren’t for champions.
“Oh you’re definitely annoyed,” he called after me.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head and was even more determined to win.
***
I wracked my brain. I’d checked everywhere three times over, I’d been to Clairmont, Cuddledown, even Redgate. I’d asked Tipper and Bess, I’d even tried to recruit to twins to help me look. And still nothing. Whoever my thief was hadn’t stolen from my bedroom. I knew myself and where I placed all my things too well. Everything was organised, precise.
I was sat on the floor feelong all too sorry for myself when some sort of lightning bolt hit me and I raced to Lockheart . How could I have forgotten my room at Lockheart?
I bolted there, as fast as my legs could carry me and found that my earrings were missing from the jewellery box. The ones that were golden sun-shaped studs.
Then I knew.
***
Johnny. Of course it was Johnny.
Johnny who was outspoken and loud. Johnny who always seemed to have scraped knee or new bruise. Johnny who seemed invincible, like he’d never be afraid of anything at all.
Who else would he bold enough to dangle a clue right in front of my face just to amuse himself? Something between aggravation and admiration stirred inside of me. He was annoyingly smart. I didn’t particularly like people who were smart, because it meant they could outsmart me and I enjoyed, even from a young age feeling as though I had an intellectual upper hand.
On my way back from Lockheart, I saw the mess of blonde hair on the beach and bound in that direction, sneaking up behind him.
“Hey!” I playfully shoved his back, “hand my earrings over, you thief.”
I flattened out my hand in expectation as he turned.
“That’s a strong accusation to make,” he pursed his lips and raised his stupid eyebrows, “are you sure?”
“I know it’s you, so don’t even try your mind games with me,” I folded my arms, an unwavering steeliness in my eyes that told him I meant it.
“Well played,” he grinned producing the box, “sunshine.”
He winked. My heart skipped a little. And I didn’t understand why my stomach suddenly felt electric and acrobatic. I was taken by a spell of dizzy excitement that made colours dance and spun across my vision like some sort of merry-go-round on drugs.
“Look!” he suddenly shouted, “there’s Cady and Mirren! Race you!”
He started running as he said the words.
“Cheater!” I cried back, laughing and still bolting right after him, the midday sun kissing my skin.
We met in the middle of the lawn, breathless and rosy-cheeked. Gat had also appeared and so the five of us paused to deliberate.
“Who’s still left?” Cady asked.
“I’ve been guessed,” Johnny said.
Gat sighed, “me too.”
“I’m out as well,” Mirren groaned, “and I thought I played it so well!”
“Don’t worry Mir, me too!” Cady consoled her.
All eyes flicked to me, “wait so I’m the only one left…”
“You’re the winner,” Cady said.
My eyes darted and met Johnny’s. Something between disappointment, annoyance and admiration flicked across his features in fractions. Yet his face rested in a smirk, I wondered silently if that was his natural state, proud and overconfident.
“So you had mine!” Mirren exclaimed, eyes as wide of saucers, “what was it?”
I produced the paint tube from my pocket, almost a trophy of my triumph.
“Ugh that was so good! Never would’ve noticed,” she said, “I haven’t painted with this colour in ages.”
“Maybe it’s a sign you should,” I smiled, gently handing it back to he.
“Or we should,” Johnny had a glint of mischief in his eyes, as he plucked the tube from Mirren’s hands.
“I don’t like where this is going,” Gat winced.
“Agreed,” I piped up.
“Come on you two, it’s the summer,” Mirren teased, “shouldn’t we be having a little fun. What’s the plan Johnny?”
“And this is why Mirren is my favourite,” he smirked, “but I don’t have an exact plan yet, but I know drawn to the paint and making a mess of things, it’s calling out to me.”
“I have an idea,” Cady suddenly smiled.
“Goody two shoes, first Sinclair granddaughter Cadence has an idea?” Johnny raised his eyebrows, looking far too excited as his eyes sparkled brighter.
Not that I was paying attention.
Cady slapped him lightly, “shut up and listen. Here’s what I propose…”
***
Gat and I were worriers, over-thinkers, outsiders. We stumbled behind the line of Sinclair grandchildren, the three blondes bubbling with an excitement that soured in my stomach. I thought it was a bad idea but who was I to argue or even attempt to stop them. Maybe a small part of me just wanted to let go and be rebellious and then my senses took over.
Harris would be mad. Tipper would go crazy. The mothers would be horrified.
I think that’s why the Sinclair children were so excited. As Gat and I shared worried glances and sweating palms, they tingled with excitement and buzzed with adrenaline.
When we got into Clairmont the dogs were already there. Sat with their regal, beautiful coats of golden woven thread. And suddenly I felt awful all over again.
“Are you sure about this Cady?” I whispered hastily.
“Stop being such a worry guts, sunshine.” Johnny grinned, nudging me.
“He’s right, this is going to be fun!” Cady agreed handing me a paintbrush.
Gat sighed, accepting his paintbrush. And his fate. He glanced at me, feeling more like a mirror than a boy, “what could go wrong?”
“It’s time for a makeover,” Mirren squealed excitedly as she carefully streak some of the golden fur with blue paint.
“It won’t hurt them will it?” Gat asked, “the chemicals in the paint.”
Mirren shook her head, “Mummy only buys me the more premium 100% natural paints, don’t worry Gat.”
He nodded hesitantly taking his brush to the fur. He drew a smiley face making us all giggle. And then suddenly we were doodling all over the dogs. Johnny was leading me over to the second golden and before I knew it I was drawing polka dots all over one side of his golden coat.
Time felt endless.. The moment was priceless. We were infinite.
The dogs shook the wet paint off shattering blue all over our faces and clothes. We were going in so much trouble but for the first time I didn’t care. I was too busy laughing. So hard that my belly ached and my ribs protested.
And suddenly something cold and wet was smeared over my cheek. Looking to my left I caught a glimpse of the amusement painted all over Johnny’s face. His weapon of attack in form of a paintbrush. Without a second thought, I swiped right back at him getting it all over his neck and collar of his shirt.
Before he could retaliate, the dogs were suddenly up and bolting out of the room. We’d been silly enough to leave the door open.
“Oh no!” Cady yelled, taking off after them.
Then we were sprinting. Johnny’s sweaty hand was in mine, practically dragging me down the hallway. He was hot on Cady’s heels and quick to overtake her and pulling me with him, but not before the dog’s has run directly into Harris’s office. We came to abrupt halt at the door, all crashing into one another. Knees, elbows, heads, a muddle of body parts.
“This is bad,” Gat muttered as we stood.
Harris stood there deathly silent. And I so was sure for a moment this was how I would die. He looked between us for a long hard while, making intense eye contact.
“Children, come forwards and stand in a straight line.”
We began to move.
“Be quick about it!”
His voice was halfway between abrasive and jovial and sent my brain spiralling with confusion and conflict.
We stood in a single file, horizontal line as if in some sort of military arrangement. All five of us looked towards with straight, slightly guilt-ridden expressions on our blue splattered faces.
Harris folded his arms, everythung abiut his suddenly stern, “did you five do this?”
We looked at each other, all making a silent pact.
We were liars.
We shook our heads in the sort of unison that made this whole affair looked staged. We reminded ourselves not to giggle or break character until we’d left the room. We were covered head to toe in splatters of dark blue paint as were the beloved retrievers.
Harris sighed outwardly, “little liars,” he shook his head, lips quirking up into a funny sort of smile, “you can’t get away with it that easily, the paint all over the five of your gives it away. Next time you want to lie, make sure you’ve discarded all of the evidence.”
He tapped the side of his nose twice.
“Number one rule of being liars,” Tipper began, “is don’t get caught so as a little lesson for my little Liars, you will wash the paint off of my dogs and any other place you got dirty.”
We all nodded and guided the dogs out, bursting into laughing fits as soon as we thought Harris and Tipper could not longer hear us.
if anyone has any ideas for what pip and ravi would name their kids please help and message them to me!! bc I’m trying to write a fic but I can’t for the life of me find a name to suit their kid
synopsis: you come home after a day from hell, a day too painful to even talk about, mind thick with guilt for the crimes you’ve committed but aaron doesn’t turn his back on you as quickly as you think he should
warning: mentions of blood, trauma, PTSD, murder, feeling dizzy and nauseous, nudity (non-sexual)
I stagger in, my legs jelly. I brace my fall, hands out so I hit the wall a soft thud, closing my eyes to stop the room from spinning. It’s a miracle I even got here in the first place. It had taken many breaks, two instances where I’d almost passed out and a hell of a lot of breathing exercises to get me this far. I guess now I’m just ready to crumble.
“Love?”
Aaron’s voice is thick with concern, an overflowing, overwhelming, over-abundance of love I don’t deserve. It makes me feel sicker by the second. My finger shake so violently my bloody knuckles hit the wall in an uneven rhythm of war drums. I press my head to my forearm and use it and the wall to take all my weight. My body weight I mean, not my mental weight, that would surely tear the poor wall down.
“What-“
“It’s not my blood.” I say stonily.
My voice is ice, sharp and cold and cutting and cruel. So unlike me, so foreign. The words taste bitter and fuel a bite I didn’t know I had in me.
Aaron is by my side, faster than light. He’s there and he’s holding me. A gentle hand on my shoulder, the other curling around my back, his eyes frantically searching me down for injuries or any minor sign of pain. He’ll find none on the outside.
I don’t look at him, I’m looking through him.
“Who did this to you?” he asks me, voice suddenly ragged. I’m not used to it sounding so out of control. He’s always so articulate but he’s a mess now. A mess like me. I suppose there is someone for everyone.
He looks angry. Emerald eyes blazing with a force that surely would obliterate anyone in his sight, anyone but me apparently. His jaw is tight, locked in position, his hands grip me a little harder but still don’t hurt. I’m still fragile, he probably thinks. If only he knew…
I don’t dare meet his eye, “I’m not hurt,” I reply, a dull monotony in my tone. The numbness nearly makes me ache.
“I don’t care, who dared to touch you?” he growls, a low husky sound that yesterday or even a few hours ago would’ve made warmth spread in my lower stomach and tingles dance down my spine. But it does nothing now but display his fury for someone he’d never be able to find.
“I don’t have a name,” I say quietly, the front of my head all tense and throbbing.
I clutch onto the cuffs on his suit jacket, bleaching my knuckles. He paralyses upon noticing, a swift hand on the small of my back, his eyes roaming my face.
“Where are you hurt?” he asks, so seriously my heart almost stops for a moment.
“I just said I’m not in pain,” I grit through my teeth.
“You’re lying,” he says, cupping my cheeks with hands so soft it makes me want to burst into tears, “I can feel what you feel. Why are you lying? What really happened? Tell me, please, it’s-“
“Stop it,” I snap, stumbling from his touch, not knowing whether it was better if I stayed or didn’t. My back hits the wall and my legs nearly crumple beneath me.
“I’ll find them,” he tells me, and I know he would if he could, “hair, eyes, height, uniform, anything. Give me anything and I’ll find them and then-“
“Aaron,” I exhale shakily, “please.”
Something rips through that word, like the begging nature of it isn’t enough. It’s an ugly, unpredicted sound that makes my vocal cords seem broken.
“What? What’s wrong?” he hurries, not touching me but waiting with open arms should I want to be touched.
It’s like he knows what I need. I don’t say another word, I can’t, it hasn’t truly sunk in yet. I just melt into him instead, practically falling into his body. My legs tremble by which point he has the entirety of my weight anyway so it didn’t matter if they were to fold beneath me.
My face buries itself deep within his collarbone, shielding my eyes from the world around so I’m plunging into a happy darkness, his strong hold the only things keeping me grounded. I can feel his worry, hear it in his racing heartbeat and shallow breaths. And I want to take it all away, really I do. But I’m not that strong. I can’t talk about it. Not yet.
“What happened love?” his voice is so achingly tender. Bare, in a way. Stripped of consciousness. He cares so much for somebody who is barely worth an ounce.
“I’m tired,” I reply. Grey, blunt, dead.
“You can go to bed I promise,” he whispers, nursing my cheek gently, “just tell me what happened.”
He’s not asking. He’s begging.
I look up, wondering if he could feel it rolling off of me. All that self-loathing, disgust, shame, anger, torment, emptiness, sadness, turmoil. Wondering if he could feel the dull burn beneath the numbness too.
My lips wobble as my face fumbles to piece together a smile, “I can’t,” I say shakily, my voice tripping over itself like a stupid child.
His eyes were wild, a torrent of chaos, “why? Who did-“
“Aaron, stop!”
My throat rips as the words release, raw and ugly and burningly real.
I’m shaking. My knees knock, bones chatter, limbs quiver. I’m all over the place. I’m dizzied by thought but anchored by him yet I’m trying to pull away with everything I have left. It doesn’t make sense, yet it so obviously does.
“I need to wash myself,” I pant with grit in my tone, “there’s blood in my hair and on my hands and I need to get it off and-“
Bile snakes its way up my throat. I close my eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” his voice is velvet, hands like silk cupping my cheeks, offering ribbons of comfort in form of words.
“Deep breath, it’s okay,” his hand sweep under my legs and haul me close into his chest, an illusion of safety. But what they don’t tell is no where is safe.
“You’re okay,” he says it so many times, “I’ve got you.”
I breathe and try to believe him. But I only get as far as trying.
“You’re safe,” he tells me, “no one will hurt you.”
I whimper into his shoulder and choke slightly as if my own body is trying to warn me not to say something stupid. But I do anyway.
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” I murmur, gripping to him tighter, as he could make it all go away.
He fingers tighten around the small of my back, a little signal he’s sending to tell me I’m secure, “what are you afraid of, love?”
I give in to his siren’s song with a terrible ease. “That I’ll be the one to do the hurting.”
“Impossible,” he kiss my temple, “you don’t hurt people, love, you’re the light they all aspire to be.”
“I’m not,” I whisper, “Aaron I’m not.”
“What happened?”
I wince, pain searing through my skull.
“I need to wash my hair,” I try to free myself from his hold but he’s too strong and I’m still shaky, “there’s blood in my hair and on my hands and I need to get it off. I need to wash my-“
He sets me down, his hands on my waist, grounding me. A thousand questions are in his eyes but he asks not one.
“Let’s go together,” he offers me gently, a steady hand ready for me to take should I want it.
“I need to wash my-“
The last of my sentence is stolen as my knees buckle but he‘s quick to support my body as he lowers me to the floor. My fingers curl around his wrists and squeeze.
“I know, love, I know,” he whispers, so gentle it almost tickles me, “I’m going to help you.”
“Please,” I force the words from my lips.
He wraps his arms around me, holding my frail bones close to his chest before very slowly lifting me up. I’m so disoriented I don’t know where he might be taking me but I know that my eyelids are dropping with their weight and my limbs are numb and leaden.
I feel him lean forwards, I hear water running, I see the fluorescent bathroom lights through my closed eyes. He’s running me a bath.
He carefully lowers us both onto the floor, his back firm up against the wall with my body curled close to his chest and he traced spirals and circles on the bare skin of my lower back. His slow, steady breathing keeping me calm, keeping me from crumbling.
“I love you,” Aaron says, his voice is low and deep and husky.
“You shouldn’t,” my voice is hollow and weak and quiet.
“I will always love you,” he tells me, harsher this time, “no matter what happens.”
“You shouldn’t,” I say again, my face buried deep within his chest. The smell of the suit I’m probably smearing blood all over acted as medicine to drug my aching soul. No not a medicine, a suppressant. Medicine makes things better and I am not better.
“You’ve loved me through all my faults,” he murmurs, his breath is warm on the side of my neck and a shiver rolls through me.
My grip tightens on his wrists. I was silent, listening to my own breathing now.
“Are you in pain?” Aaron asks, changing the subject.
I tense. Pain. What kind of pain did he mean? No, I hadn’t been shot but my heart was ripping in two. No, I hadn’t lost any limbs but I felt just as lifeless as I would’ve if I had. No, my bruises weren’t fatal, but I the inner walls of my skull were screaming in agony. My mind was drowning me in a thick, black sea of myself.
But all I said was, “no.”
The word is ice. The kind of ice that’s so cold it burns.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, tentative fingers hovering over my minor injuries, “your wrists are bruised love.”
I rip my hands from his with a sharpness, a bitterness.
“I said I’m fine Aaron,” I snap.
“Okay,” he says gently, “I’m sorry, I won’t ask for now.”
He dares to graze my cheek with his touch but I don’t reject him. My head is pounding, my brain spinning and he just hold me, never letting go, never loosening that grip of comfort.
It feels like forever. Part of me wishes it is.
“My love you need to take your clothes,” he pressed his lips to my ear, tickling my skin.
I nod shakily, getting to my feet on gelatinous legs. With fumbling fingers, I try to unloop the buckle on the protective vest, now missing a gun from its holster. But everything is slipping away.
Everything is slipping away.
“Here, let me.”
Aaron’s moves are swift as usual. His fingers smoothly glide across the buckles and braces, undoing them with a buttery ease. I don’t even attempt to undo the zipper on my skin-tight suit, I just let him. I feel the warmth of his knuckles on me as he accidentally grazes my back in the process. He gently peels the suit from my body, eyes scanning for injury no doubt but I know he’ll find nothing severe, that damage is internal.
I stand there, looking a vulnerable as I feel. My clothes have been strewn to a corner and I make a silent promise that I’ll burn them soon. As my bloodied hair licks my colour bone, a chill runs through me once again. Before I know it his arm is looping behind my knees and I am being lifted me off the floor. A dizzying impact hits me and my rag doll head lols to the side, hitting his chest with a dull thud. My eyes close as I feel myself give up entirely.
He lowers me gently and I felt the water lap my skin, the warmth sending shivers through my core. My body feels so disconnected that I just lay there almost as if I was dead.
His hand hold the back of head that holds his above water level, letting everything else sink below. It feels as though I’m slipping in and out of consciousness, one second hyperaware of every tiny movement and the next, dead to it all.
I hear water sloshing and then feel it, warm over the head. I open my eyes to see Aaron’s face above me, a plastic container in his hands, gently tipping water over my hair to wet it enough to be washed. He is washing the blood from my hair. Tears come uninvited.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, “love, please don’t cry.”
I don’t stop crying.
“I’m tired,” I murmur, the words slurring into one.
My body feels heavy and I just want to let go. I release the weight and tension, my head falls limp.
“I know,” he tells me gently, “I know you are love and you can sleep soon, just let me wash your hair.”
Our eyes meet and I think he feels my fear as I grab his arm with a harsh aggression. My knuckles are white, his arm blossoming red under my tough grip, “get all the blood out,” I whimper, not asking, but begging him.
“I will,” he says, his palm on the back of my head.
“No,” I growl, my nails digging into his flesh, “you don’t understand Aaron, if you don’t I’ll be able to smell it.”
My stomach turns at the thought and I feel a dizzy spell coming on. My head tips backwards.
“I’ll get it all out,” he tells me, over and over, “don’t worry, love.”
He’s patient. So damn patient. Even when I don’t deserve it. Even when I’ll never deserve it.
I close my eyes to feel his hands buried deep in my hair. He works the shampoo in with soft circular motions with enough pressure to make me feel clean and not hurt. It’s like he can read my mind. It’s like he knows how I feel, inside and out. His finger weave in and out of the thick body of hair as bubbles foam and the congealed blood is freed. It smells sweet. Like coconut and vanilla, no hint of that stomach-churning metallic twinge nearby.
I dare to relax to the sound of sloshing and tipping of water as it swallows my scalp whole. Over and over and over.
A little sick part of me wants to put my head under and see if it’ll all go quiet. Quiet sounds nice. I want to see if I’ll come back up or I’ll just say there.
But there is someone stopping me from sinking. The same someone with a strong hand holding my head above the water, too careful not to get any water or soap anywhere near my eyes, too cautious not to press his fingers too hard on my skin. His hands slide beneath the water and massage the tension knots out of my neck.
I want to fall asleep right here and now, I want to feel lighter, forget the day and slip into dreamland. Fantasy is better than reality, the fictitious pictures painted in my mind are sedating me slowly, softly, sweetly.
“You okay, love?”
I hum, though it barely passes for a sound.
“You might have to sit up for this part,” he explains.
I moan in protest as he lifts me from the water and leane my back on the cool porcelain, my dripping hair draping over the side of the tub.
Aaron is running his fingers through the length of my hair so it can soak up all of the conditioner. He brushes through it so carefully I think I might just shatter. I think I do a little.
I’m unravelling in my mind. My head tingles, a mix of the sensations rioting in my brain. I’m never this kind to it, never this gentle. He’s too good, too pure, too beautiful.
He squeezes the deadweight water in my hair out and lifts me out. A heavy curtain of hair hangs from my head and I’m soaking his shirt but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s still being gentle and kind and tender with me.
Things I’ll selfishly enjoy now and viciously regret letting myself go so later.
He wraps me in a towel as he sets me down, my legs a little less like jelly now. I just stand there staring at him. I catch a glimpse of the warm water still left in the bathtub clouded with a pinkish reddish tint.
I look at him, eyes filling with tears. Heart seizing up.
“I killed someone.”
The confession is so much louder than it was in my head. And it burns now, like a wildfire I’ve never seen before. I collapse in a heap of sobs, into him, feeling as naked as I was under my towel. I’d just admitted to everything. To who I had become.
A disgrace. A traitor. A murderer.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Aaron pulls me onto his lap and he holds me, whispering soft, sweet words into my ears. He rocks my aching body back and forth.
