Chapter 9
Jolie—aged eighteen
It had been three days since I’d read the diary. . . two of which, despite my note, Woodrow walked around me like he was stepping on eggshells. The mild paranoia I’d read of, along with a horde of other issues, didn’t seem that mild.
He wished he hadn’t shown me the book that allowed me access to his thoughts.
The smell of regret lingered on his skin more so than his usual scent of darkness and forestry.
“What is that smell?” Nessie’s face scrunched at the repugnance of it.
It wasn’t the regret. . . no, something else in the kitchen was smelling strongly.
As usual. And it was awful—stronger than ever before.
My face had contorted when I walked into the room, and it took every muscle in my face to force a smile onto my lips, just in case it was Wynter’s cooking—which was getting less appeasing by the day—making the kitchen smell even worse than it always did.
“That’s the bad meat that your father hasn’t brought up from the basement.” Wynter’s fake accent sharpened. She loaded the last of the breakfast bowls onto the kitchen table, where her children and I all sat waiting for her to join us. She fluffed Nessie’s hair with a free hand.
“It’s awful, Momma.”
“It is.”
Wynter shot an evil glare towards her husband, who had his head buried in the fridge, scouting for future snacks. He ignored her actions, along with her jibes. And I ignored that he was in the room, not daring to look at him because his ass crack was peeping out from sagging trousers.
“This house is low on nibbles. Low on good alcohol, too. I can’t have no good alcohol and nibbles.” Ville slammed the fridge door, careening and taking his flat ass from view.
“I’ll open a window.” She moved off, ignoring her husband to release the catch on the window and push it slightly.
Wynter looked very glam for such an early hour, as always. For someone who never left the house, she was always dressed in fancy clothes, her face painted, heels on, clacking over the hard floors as she slipped into her seat. The puffy cushion indenting only slightly under her small weight.
I hadn’t bothered to slip out of my pajamas and into more suitable daytime wear, never mind anything fancy. The last few weeks had taught me that the kids didn’t often bother dressing before the clock struck midday. And Ville never made any effort with his appearance, at all.
I often wondered where Woodrow got his looks. Wynter wasn’t unattractive, but her lips and eyes were different shades to her son’s, different shapes, too. He looked nothing like her.
He looked nothing like Ville.
He looked so beautiful, sitting across the table.
“Say grace, please. . .” Wynter requested, taking her seat, her heavily-lined eyes back on Ville, as he moved to the table.
I bowed my head, ready and waiting for this morning’s prayer. Ville, the only one left to be seated, slumped down in the chair beside me. Always beside me.
I edged away slightly, something I always did when he took his seat because I didn’t want him to notice as he set my nerves on edge.
His chair screeched, screaming threats that its skinny legs felt like giving way as he dropped his weight down without care.
I closed my eyes as he began. . .
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this food, for this family, and for the unity we have within these walls. We thank you for your sacrifices, for our lives, blessed, for however long they may be.”
I tried not to allow the slightly morbid tone of his voice drag the equally morbid words into my head. I didn’t want them to linger in my ears. Ville never usually mentioned the potential of dying young whenever he said grace.
He continued, “Please bless this breakfast—our most sacred meal—in the way that you have and will continue to bless our lives. Amen.”
“Amen.” The word floated around the room, four voices becoming one.
I dug into the standard breakfast theme of this house, which I’d missed many mornings, thanks to my messed-up sleeping pattern.
The tantalizing scent of biscuits and gravy hit my nose before a crumb set foot near my taste buds. Luckily, it had drowned out that of the bad meat.
I didn’t look at Woodrow or the bland mush he pushed around the bowl in front of him with a bent spoon.
“Don’t play with your food!” Wynter spoke with a full mouth, not the first time this week that she had forgotten her table manners. She had said the exact same thing each day for what was surely the past twenty days. “Anyone would swear you think I’m going to poison you.”
“I don’t,” Woodrow commented back, innocent eyes and a lowly smile directed to his mother.
“No. . . the poison is already in you boy. In your blood.” Ville laughed, before choking on a snort. His germs flew out of his mouth and landed on me. I lowered my arms beneath the table to brush them off without causing offense.
Woodrow sat, positioned for their ridicule while I kept my eyes on my breakfast bowl, hoping and praying that none of Ville’s throat germs were swimming unseen amongst the lumps in my gravy.
“Right, honey?” Ville winked across the table, his throat finally clear.
Wynter didn’t object to her husband’s claim; she didn’t return any facial expression.
She sat with an indifferent expression until she put a smile back on her face—a smile that faltered as soon as Woodrow opened his mouth.
Something about him just rubbed her wrong.
And the way she treated him grated on me, but I couldn’t comment.
I forced a forkful into my mouth, filling it and preventing myself from talking.
“I’m just checking for lumps,” were the words Woodrow worded back, still gliding the mush around the bowl.
“I can assure you there are no lumps. My cooking isn’t that bad.” She rolled her eyes, directing another forkful of her own food into her mouth. “Now, shut up and eat, and don’t forget—”
“I know,” he cut her off, knowing what she was about to demand. We all knew. Cover your throat.
I took in another mouthful, and the hate in my mouth—the words I held back—made the food taste ugly.
I swallowed, lumps of meat and lumps of unstirred flour, and I wondered how she even managed to make this meal without eliminating them.
I no longer felt hungry. I was now wondering, if it was, in fact, lumps of meat or Ville’s snot. Suddenly, my churning stomach felt nothing but sick.
Wynter’s eyes roamed the table, stopping on her husband, who hadn’t touched his meal.
“It looks dry, Wynter. I ain’t eating no dry food,” Ville spoke up, his eyes downcast to his plate. It was hard to tell whether she was his wife or slave, as he called her with the demand of more gravy, which was sitting in a boat within reaching distance of him.
Her fork was at her mouth, another heavy mouthful about to be eaten when she retracted and stood. Splashes of gravy splattered the tablecloth from her dish, her annoyance showing. But she remained silent as she traveled across the room.
She drowned his breakfast in the gravy, leaving barely any for herself, or me or Nessie should any of us want more.
“Bon appétit,” Wynter said, almost sounding French as she gestured to the food. But something in her stomach twisted. Maybe she had pain, maybe it was something else, but whatever it was, it was plastered on her face thicker than the heavy makeup she wore.
I layered another biscuit into my bowl, fresh and clean of germs. I kept my eyes low; I couldn’t risk Nessie—who sat opposite me, dribbling gravy—noticing the undisclosed agitation burning in my eyes.
“Wipe your mouth, baby.” Wynter dropped back into her chair. Her ignored instructions were for Nessie.
“Hungry, are ya’, darlin’?” Ville’s dirty fingers rubbed my leg as he voiced his question.
I suddenly wished I’d changed my clothes. The shorts of my pajamas felt instantly shorter as his calloused fingers brushed my thigh.
I stared down at his dirty nails and fought hard to keep the vomit from rising in my throat. I fought even harder to put a false smile on my lips and keep it there as I nodded.
“Don’t touch her,” Woodrow’s voice was deathly flat—cold and volatile, in comparison with the warmth I’ve felt these last few weeks.
“Excuse me?” Ville countered, a hidden smirk twitching on and off his lips as his eyes moved from me to the boy I loved.
“You heard me. You heard every word. Don’t touch her. Or, I’ll slit your wife’s throat.”
Woodrow was up on his feet, hands spread across the table as he leaned in.
His threat ripped Ville’s hand from my body, but I hadn’t heard it. I’d heard nothing but the brush of silk across my skin as Ville’s hand moved my pajamas higher and higher with each stroke before his touch finally retracted.
But I heard the sound of Woodrow dropping back into his seat—the legs not making half as many threats to collapse, as that of Ville’s.
And then I heard the panic in everyone’s voices.
Ville raised his hands in surrender, like he was about to be taken by the law for all the rules he’d ever broken. All amusement had left him as he voiced, “Easy, you don’t want to do that.”
“Woodrow.” Wynter sharpened her tone. The edge of her words ready to slit his oversized throat. They pulled me back to the table, back to the reality from the maladaptive escape I’d slowly started to slip away to.
I side-eyed the boy holding my heart, who sat deadly silent, deadly still, like he was on some kind of knife edge.
He looked different, his expression darker, more brooding.
Hateful. Nothing like the person I’d spent all my time with.
Nothing like Woody—the child trapped inside his body who came out to play when Woodrow’s stress levels rose him to the surface of the skin they shared.
This was someone else.
This was Hell.
“Save your words, Mother. He can’t hear you. And I have no interest in fucking listening.” A daring smile crept across his face as he peered into her worried face, swallowing her fear and feeding on it.
His smile dared her to say more, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.