Chapter 37 The Green Grass
THE GREEN GRASS
DAMON
The unobstructed sun beams down on my face as I leisurely stroll down the idyllic streets of Rockchester Villa.
For a gated community, it’s never felt like a prison.
Not when I learned to ride my bike and accidentally swerved into a white picket fence.
Not when I trapped my first firefly and my mother lectured me on the importance of breathing holes.
Not when my parents told us we were to attend a boarding school.
A man in his late sixties waves at me from his front porch. I return the gesture, attempting to place him. He looks familiar. I intently study his aging features, his posture, and the way he smiles at me. I suppose I do know him. He lives next door, after all.
I shift my focus from the man to his pristine lawn. The grass is greener than I remember. Perhaps they’ve updated their sprinkler system. I should look into that. I’ve always enjoyed a lush green landscape.
A jarring beep sounds from my watch, and I lift my wrist, staring at the mechanical winding hands. I frown, brows knitted together. Maybe it wasn’t the watch. Shaking my head, I take a deep breath and turn onto the path toward my house.
Standing at the front gates, I tilt my head and smile, admiring the handcrafted brick exterior, the slate roof, the subtle details that capture opulence without being ostentatious.
It’s perfect. My dream home. I was nine when I designed it with crayons and markers.
Of course, the walls are straight and the roof isn’t made of candy, but the essence is there.
Home sweet home.
As I approach the front door, I pat the pockets of my jeans, looking for keys.
Do I need keys? Or will it be open?
My fingertips trace the subtle texture of paint splattered across the light denim. Neon yellow. Interesting. Not a color I would choose. A set of long, yellow manicured nails flash through my mind but the image quickly fades as the front door swings open.
“Baby! You’re home!”
Every last ounce of breath leaves my lungs as Alison wraps her arms around my body.
I melt into her touch as she squeezes me, holds me, kisses my neck.
She pulls away and tilts her head. I blink as I stare into her green eyes.
Green like jade. Like the cleansing shade of sage.
Green. Green like the grass. Green like trees. Like beginnings. And oxygen.
I swallow, trailing my gaze down the length of the light blue polka-dotted dress that seems a bit out of place.
Alison pouts. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” She twirls before me and then smiles. A minuscule pain pokes at my chest. That smile. I remember that smile. Bright and proud and hers. The woman with green eyes. “Baby?”
I clear my throat. “No, it’s beautiful. I love it.”
She grins, holding out her hand. “Well, come on. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I frown. “Dinner? It’s only…” I check my watch again. My frown deepens. The hands on the clock no longer say 2 p.m. “Oh.”
Alison drags me into the house, and I frown at the circle table sitting in the middle of the foyer. A vase of solid gold roses sits in the center. Twelve roses. Only twelve. The vase is white and far too grand for so few flowers. A floral scent permeates the air, but gold has no fragrance.
Alison ducks behind me and closes the front door, locking it. I snap my head toward her as the click thunders through my chest. I place a hand over my heart.
Alison smirks. “Don’t swoon now, baby. I know I look good.”
I rein in a grin. She does. Her red lips. Her dark black lashes. The slope of her button nose. But those eyes. I would die for those eyes. I would kill for those eyes.
I would live for those eyes.
“I’m going to set the table,” Alison says, gesturing toward the hallway. “Your parents are in the sitting room. Gabriela is trying to convince them to invest in a new company.”
“My parents are here?” My breath hitches as if five hundred volts of electricity connect with my chest. “And Gabby?”
Alison perks a brow. “Of course, they’re here, Damon. It’s Sunday night dinner. They’re always here.”
“Right…” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. My forehead creases as I take in the black dress pants hanging from my hips. But…
“Go, Damon.” She points down a hallway adorned with five ornate chandeliers. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Lead settles in the base of my feet as I trudge toward the sitting room, each step heavier than the last. I follow the sound of laughter and chatter. When I emerge on the other side of the hall, three sets of eyes snap toward me. My spine shivers as I take in the sight of my family.
They’re paler than I remember. But it’s summer. Isn’t it summer?
Gabriela grins up at me, her curls cascading down her spine. “Hey, D. Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for you.”
Where have I been? Where was I?
“I was at work.”
My father frowns. “Work? On a Sunday? I thought I taught you better than that, son. We don’t work on weekends. That’s family time. You should know this.”
Should I?
“But you worked weekends.”
He exchanges a puzzled look with my mother, and they both break out in soft laughter. “If I worked weekends, son, your mother would kill me. Isn’t that right, honey?”
My mother covers her mouth, demure and bashful. “I would kill you dead.”
Gabriela pats the empty space beside her on the sectional. “Sit, D. Tell us about your day.”
I hesitate, my brain blanking, glitching as I attempt to remember. “Why don’t you tell me about your day instead?” Forcing my legs to stride in the direction of my sister, I perch down beside her. I stifle a gasp as she places her frigid hand on my knee. “You’re so cold.”
Gabby furrows her groomed brows. “No, D. You’re the one that’s cold. See?” She presses the back of her hand on my cheek, and I shiver. “I’m warm.”
“No, you’re—”
Alison appears on the threshold, beaming. “Dinner’s ready. Shall we?”
My father takes my mother’s hand as he helps her stand up. He places his palm on the small of her back, and she takes a deep, satisfying breath. “Oh, Alison, it smells so good. I’ve always loved your roasts.”
I slowly walk beside Gabby as we make our way into the dining room. “You made a roast?” I ask Alison. “Since when can you cook?”
Alison giggles. “I’ve always cooked, Damon. The roast is your favorite. It’s why I made it. It’s why I make it every Sunday. For you. Because you love it.”
As we enter the dining room, I stare at the large table draped with a white tablecloth, a green runner down the middle.
There’s a feast sprawled across the crisp linens, five candelabras stretching the length of the table.
Each candle burns with a steady flame. There are eight chairs.
Four on one side. Three on the other. One at the head.
My fingertips tingle as I pull out one of the chairs.
“Damon.” Alison motions toward the head of the table. “You sit there. You always sit at the head.”
“Oh…” I swallow, stomach twisting with nausea. “Sorry. I-I forgot.”
“Forgetting already?” my father jokes, taking his seat next to my mother. “Hopefully he won’t ever forget us.”
“He’ll never forget us, Jon,” my mother chuckles as she drapes a napkin across her lap. “We’ll always be together. How can he forget us when we’re always here?”
“Don’t worry, D,” Gabby says, smiling as Alison sits down on my right. “It’s a simple mistake.”
I glance at the three empty seats to my left. “Are we expecting company?” I ask, staring at the colorful plastic cups and plates. I look back down at my own china. Ceramic. “Alison?”
“Boys!” Alison yells into the abyss. “Boys! Dinner!”
“Boys?” I frown. “What—”
Footsteps pound in the distance, shaking the foundation of the house as three young boys pour into the dining room. My eyes widen. “Who are—”
“Dad!” The oldest one shrieks, running toward me with a red toy car in his hand. He places it in front of my wine glass, and I’m frozen, staring at the vehicle. Not a car. A van. A minivan. Red. “Will you play with us after dinner?”
“Yeah, Dad.” The youngest boy hops up on his seat and grins at me. “Play with us.”
I lift the toy, examining it. “What is this?” I ask Alison. “Why does he have this?”
Alison tilts her head. “You gave it to him, Damon. On his birthday. Don’t you remember?
You picked it out yourself. There were so many toys.
So many cars. But you picked that one. You pointed your finger and said, ‘That one. I want that one.’” She looks at the children.
“Tell him. Tell your father that he picked it. He wanted it. Tell him that he chose it. Tell him, boys. He needs to hear it. He needs to know that it was his choice.”
The boys look at me in union. Their red hair matches the flames of the candles. “You did, Dad. You picked it. We all play with it. We love it. It’s our favorite. We love it, Dad.”
I shake my head. Dad. No… “Alison, whose children are these?”
She blinks. “What do you mean, baby? They’re ours. They’re our children.”
My father narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling alright, Damon? You don’t look well.”
I abruptly stand up. “You don’t like children, Alison. You don’t want children.”
Alison swallows. “Baby… Please sit down. You’re making a scene. It’s scaring our kids.”
My skin itches with an onslaught of irritation, and I slam my hand against the dining room table. Everyone jumps in their seats. “These are not our children. Don’t lie to me, Alison. What did you do?”
“Damon…” Gabby’s glossy gaze flicks toward me. “Don’t fight it, Damon. Just sit. Just sit down with us.”
“No…” My pulse quickens as I take a step back, vision blurring as I look around the table. “No… This isn’t—I’m not…”
Alison rises to her feet and slowly strides toward me, her eyes hardened. Her eyes. Her blue eyes. Terror zaps my spine.
“Why are you fighting with us, Damon? Why are you doing this?” She casts me an eerie smile, her tone soft, feminine, and frightening.
She places a hand over my chest. Cold. So fucking cold that my heart freezes on impact and I wince.
“Just sit down, Damon. You’ve wanted to sit with us for so long.
For years. You’re here now, Damon.” The flames of the candles go out as a gust of wind blows through the dining room.
“So sit. Sit with us, Damon. Join us. This is what you wanted.”
My heart hammers, rattling against my ribs. My lungs constrict airflow, and I pant, a sheen of sweat coating on my forehead.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper, staggering backward. “This isn’t—”
“It’s what you want, Damon,” Alison says, tearing up. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” She motions to the table. “A family, Damon. We’re your family. We’re here. We’re here for you. We love you, Damon. I love you.” She pauses. “You're woven into the very fabric of my being.”
The room spins, and a loud, raw, haunting voice echoes in my ears.
You're woven into the very fabric of my being.
I love you.
You're woven into the very fabric of my being.
I love you.
You're woven into the very fabric of my being.
I love you.
Fight, Damon.
Fight.
Fight for us.
Come on, Damon. Fight. Fight.
Emery.
“I need to leave,” I mutter under my breath, my pulse quickening as I frantically scan the table. “I need…”
Real. This isn’t real. They’re not real. No… No. This isn’t my life. This isn’t my reality.
“Damon!”
I need to leave.
My heart pounds against my pained ribs as I race from the dining room to the front door, my breath coming in desperate gasps.
Panic surges through me, a tidal wave of fear pushing me forward.
This is wrong. Everything is wrong. I don’t belong here.
I can’t be here. Not yet. Not ever. This isn’t right. It’s all so very wrong.
Grunting, I reach the door, yanking at the handle with trembling hands, but it's locked. I rattle the handle violently, tears streaming down my face.
Why won’t it open?!
I need it to open. I need to leave.
Alison appears behind me. “It’s locked, Damon. You locked it. Don’t you remember? You wanted it locked.”
"Let me out! I want to leave," I cry, my voice cracking as I twist and turn and claw at the impenetrable door. "Open it! Open the fucking door!"
“Don’t fight us, Damon.”
Fight, Damon.