Chapter Thirteen
Evelyn
“Last stop ladies and gentlemen.” The bus driver shouts in a cheery voice.
There’s barely anyone on the bus, just me and four other lonely travellers, probably on their way home for thanksgiving. I look out the window and see the familiar surroundings of my hometown beyond the grime-streaked glass. The town hall, a red brick building with white pillars and a clock tower, stands tall and proud at the centre of town. Surrounding it are a host of local businesses, and beyond that are the suburb two-story houses all the rich live in.
But this isn’t where I grew up or where my dad currently lives.
No, the trailer park where I was born and raised is a fifteen-minute walk away, hidden behind the rich fa?ade the town likes to put on, our lives like a dirty stain on the vision they like to put forward.
Picking up my bag, I hop off the bus and start the walk to the trailer park. By the time I’m halfway there, my clothes are soaked through with sweat, the heat bordering on unbearable today. It probably doesn’t help that I’m still flustered from earlier when Asher decided to rock my world with his tongue. My cheeks are red from the heat, but if they weren’t I would be blushing like crazy as a flash of Asher’s face between my legs in the restaurant appears.
But that’s soon forgotten, pushed away by the worry for my dad, worry that increases with every step forward I take. I haven’t been able to visit my dad in weeks and I am not looking forward to the hell I’m going to have to deal with when I get there. When I see the familiar site of the off-white trailer, a strip of red circling the old RV, my stomach twists uncomfortably like snakes are coiling in between muscles and flesh.
It”s the same as it has always been with its grimy windows, stained from years of smoke, the old plastic chairs laid out in front of it, beer cans littering the small patch of grass it stands on.
Swallowing, I walk over to it and prepare myself for the smell of body odour and stale beer.
“Hey dad!” I shout and open the door.
My feet immediately coming into contact with a stray beer bottle sending it rolling along the floor, the sound like gravel. He doesn’t answer. I push further into the room, taking in the state of it.
“Dad?” I shout again and shove open the curtains to let the light in. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight coming in through the windows, lighting up a mass of takeout wrappers and dirty clothing that litter the floor.
I check through each of the rooms, but I don’t anything but rubbish and a rancid sour smell. He’s not here.
Walking back outside, I spy Lillian, a neighbour who we’ve lives next to for as long as I’ve been alive, sitting on her porch across the way.
I wave to her. “Hey, Lillian. Have you seen my dad?”
“No.” She sucks on the butt of her cigarette, the deep lines around her mouth folding deeper as her lips purse.
“Well, do you know where he is?”
“No.” The smoke spills out of her lips. “But I imagine he’ll be back soon.”
“Okay, thank you.” I turn and head back inside the trailer, annoyed by her cryptic response.
I lie down on my childhood bed; a small single shoved into a room with barely enough space to move in, and I wait. He can’t have gone far. My dad rarely left the trailer when I lived with him and the only places, he would go were the grocery store and sometimes the bar if he had any spare change to buy a bottle of beer with. He must have gone to one of those, so he should be back soon.
I wipe a hand down my flower-dotted comforter, the pink petals faded with age. The familiar smell of my room lulls me into a weird state of calm. This place never felt truly like home, but being back is sending me into a weird state of nostalgia.
Almost like part of me misses it.
Eventually, I drift, my mind sliding into a dream world full of fuzzy clouds and a wash of light and colour.
Asher is lying in a field of fresh grass and budding flowers. I’m smiling at him, a paintbrush in my hand as I work on a portrait.
“Stay still.” I scold gently.
He smirks, sending me that insufferable grin of his that sends the wings in my stomach fluttering. “It’s hard to stay still for so long.”
I roll my eyes. “You own an art gallery. Surely you knew this is what painting a portrait required.”
“Yes, but I’ve never wanted to fuck the artist before.”
My stomach dips, my pussy throbbing as if in agreement with him.
“Behave.” I say smiling.
I place the paintbrush down onto the easel and walk forward, giving into his lure. When I’m within reach, he reaches up for me, pulling me down until I’m straddling his waist, my heat pressed into his throbbing cock.
“This better.” I grin.
He pauses, thinking, and in one quick move he turns our bodies until he’s holding himself above me, his core pressed into mine.
“Now this is perfect.” He leans down and hovers his lips over mine, our breath mingling. I want to kiss him, to drown in him, to bend to his will. He leans down closer, so close we’re almost touching, and then—
A door slams shut and my dreams shatter. The trailer trembles with the force of it and a second later I hear my dad mumbling. I jump up from the bed and shove through the doors to find darkness pouring in through the window. I must have been asleep for hours. My father is stumbling through the living room, his steps uncertain.
“Dad?”
He turns at the sound of my voice, his eyes shifting weirdly before eventually focusing. He looks paler than last time, thinner too, like his body has been stripped of all pigment and fat. In other words, he looks awful.
“Linny!” He shouts. “My sweet girl.” He walks forward and his hands grab onto my face, holding it. His touch is heavy, almost bruising.
“Hey dad.”
“Look at you.” His eyes roll over my face. “How’s my college girl.?”
“I’m good.” I walk him over to the couch, helping him sit before I follow. He looks so frail, like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him. His skin is sagging, the fat melting off his bones, leaving him to look almost skeletal. His hair is greasy too, and the smell radiating off him tells me he hasn’t been showering often, if at all. “Have you eaten?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
I’m fighting the urge to get his unemployment check, pay his bills, and ditch.
“No.”
“I’ll make you something.” I stand and walk to the fridge. It’s empty, so I head to the cupboards instead to find a pack of noodles nestled amongst half empty bottles of vodka.
“Such a sweetheart.” He mumbles, shifting on the couch to lie down.
“How have things been?” I say over my shoulder, stirring the bubbling pot of ramen. My stomach grumbles but I’ll just eat when I get back to my dorm tomorrow. When he doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder and see his eyes are closed, his breaths deep and even. I sigh, leaving the ramen on the side with a note to EAT in big capital letters with a line carved under them. He can eat it cold, it’s not like he has high expectations.
Later, once I’ve paid his bills and stocked his shelves, I slide under the sheets of my childhood bed, still clothed, and sleep. But this time, instead of fluffy dreams of a life I can’t have, I fall into a dark, screaming, oblivion.
When I wake again, it’s to the sound of glass smashing against the thin walls of the trailer. A shout follows, a drunken stumble of words that hold no reason. I slip out of the comforter, grabbing my bag, ready to bolt if I need to, and exit to see what’s angered my dad this time.
“Dad?” I say cautiously, my hand held out like I’m approaching a rabid animal. As I walk, my shoes crunch over the broken shards of a beer bottle.
“You!” he points a yellowed finger at me, his eyes glazed over. “You took it.” He stumbles forward, his rancid breath fogging in front of me, and then he’s shoving me against a wall, his hand clutching my neck.
“Dad?!” I shout before the breath is stolen from me when he begins to squeeze.
“Where is it, you fucking whore.” He sneers the words against my cheek. “What have you done with it?”
I can’t answer, I can’t tell him that I don’t know what he’s talking about. My head swells, filling with fog as I fight for breath. He’s squeezing so hard. His fingers bruising. I grab at his hands, clawing, desperate for him to stop. My eyes blur. My heart races.
In the next second, I’m thrown to the floor, but I don’t register the pain in my side. I can only swallow down oxygen, feeling my hazy vision refocus. I look up at him, panting.
He’s holding his head, pacing like an animal. “You better tell me.” He stutters, “if you don’t, I’ll do something bad.”
“Dad, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tears stream down my cheeks. He leans down, his eyes shifting like they can’t stay still, everything about him jittery. His hand lifts, and before I can say anything, do anything, he’s moved, hitting me so hard in the face that I see stars. The impact sears through me, scolding hot. I taste blood.
I don’t think, I just leave.
It’s still dark, the stars blanketing the sky.
He’s never hit me. Never.
I lick my lip, wincing at the tender hurt, the sting of metal, and walk, fall apart. The pain slices deep, razoring deep inside my stomach, raw like an open wound. I peel my phone from my pocket, dialling him before I can think twice. I’m frantic, but my panic is soothed by him. The strength of who he is holding me up.
I plead; he worries. The call ends.
Eventually, I find a bus, a driver who frowns, a ride that passes in a blur of tears and then I’m there and he’s there. And then I’m falling into him, his arms folding around me like a blanket, his love like a balms.
The stars wink.