Chapter 1 #4
The green sweatsuit made sitting uncomfortable, the material thinning as it stretched over my wider hips.
The lights throughout the house were dimly lit, the dimmer not dared to be messed with during dinner.
This family liked the dark. I’d have wondered why—wondered what they were hiding in it, and if there was something evil lurking in the shadows—if evil actually lurked in the shadows.
It didn’t. Evil walked proudly amongst the millions of people out enjoying the brightest of summer days—exactly like it did the day I was taken.
My hair was damp, but my tight curls were barely stretched out. I took a seat at the dining table, sitting between an empty chair and a chair occupied by Ville.
The children of the house, Woodrow and Nessie, sat opposite me, with totally different expressions housed on their faces.
I directed my gaze away from their watchful stares, to the platters of food clustered in the center of the table, comfortably sat upon a dark checkered tablecloth. Pizzas. Pastries. Pasta. Little smokies. Delicacies of all kinds sat proudly, awaiting our selection.
I didn’t want to eat, but the food taunted me, seducing my senses, and hypnotizing me further into hunger.
I had no idea how long it had been since I’d last eaten anything edible.
And I didn’t bother much with the inedible, bland breakfast foods that had been offered to me whenever I was deemed well-behaved enough to eat.
I waited for Wynter, waited for her to stop faffing about in the distance and join us at the table, just like everyone else did.
Seconds moved slowly, and then she joined us, taking her seat.
Everyone’s head dropped, everyone’s but mine. . . and Woodrow’s. Again, he was acting as if he couldn’t angle his neck, which had me focusing on his appearance.
His hair was dark, his lips full—curved with the perfect bow.
A small dot was stamped on the right side of his philtrum, a mark to emphasize his beauty.
His skin, so light, like his pretty eyes.
I was mesmerized, as he closed them, dark lashes fluttering down his cheeks as he shut out the image of the room in a way of respect.
My eyes trailed down, over his strong jaw, to his throat, which had a permanent swelling, pushing out his large Adam’s apple, making it look like an actual apple was stuck there.
Fingers brushed my arm, distracting me as I took him in. Wynter’s arm was stretched across the table. The touch startled me—all touches did these days.
“Lower your head, sweetie.” Wynter’s words were quiet but commanded my obedience. “We have to say our prayers before dinner. We have to thank God for our blessings.”
I simply nodded, not knowing what to say, as I hadn’t grown up around a religion. I looked down after one last quick glance to the boy opposite, who was shaking as much as me. He was nervous. I felt it. I felt his animosity rivalling mine from across the table.
“Dear Lord, Our Heavenly Majesty, we thank you for this meal, for blessing us with our lives. And for allowing us to enjoy what so many take for granted—family time. . .” Ville’s words made me wince, slicing through me like a carving knife, cutting through my most vital organ—my heart.
“We pray for many more days like this; shared, enjoyed, blessed. We thank you for the life you gave us and will honor you by living as you intended, by giving in to the things that bring us joy. Amen.”
My lashes fluttered as I tried to understand his odd choice of wording as he reached the end of his blessing.
“Amen. . .” the word echoed around the room, floundering in the darkness.
“Can we eat now?” Nessie quizzed, eyeing up a certain slice of pepperoni pizza, her little hands fidgeting, desperate to clutch her desired piece.
“Of course, dig in.” Wynter smiled at her, then at me. Then her husband. Her smile was different when it landed on him; it spoke a language I didn’t understand. Maybe, it was love.
Maybe, it was something else.
I glanced back across the distance, over the food as the quantity on the plates decreased, claimed by the hungry family.
I hadn’t picked anything yet, and neither had he.
Woodrow. His eyes were locked on me; a sad expression lurking behind a light sheen of tears.
He hadn’t even glanced down at the spread made in honor of his birthday.
“After you.” He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes or round his cheeks.
He moved his hand to his throat as his words pained him. My eyes followed, moving back to the obstruction behind his skin. To something large and uncomfortable.
“Please, don’t stare at me.” His voice, even with the request, wasn’t stern. He sounded like he was intentionally altering his tone, making himself sound almost childlike. But his words still held a warning. Telling me I was causing offense.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized instantly.
His fingers shuffled again, flicking in the direction of the food, encouraging me to make my selections and take them to my plate. “Aren’t you going to try the food?”
Before I could ask him the same—it was for his birthday after all—Nessie was leaning on the table, mouth full, telling me, “Try the pizza, Jolie. It’s delicious!
” Nessie’s little voice was calming, an anchor in the storm held in Woodrow’s misty gaze.
Something for me to hold onto while his stare, as innocent as it was, battered my already bruised body.
Nessie was smiling at me; she had taken an instant liking to me, as I did her. When she’d learned my name upstairs, she had renamed one of her dolls after me.
I took a slice of pizza from the center of the table, lifting it with a smile for her. I placed it on my plate and added a spoonful of pasta and a small pile of sausages to eat with it.
Woodrow didn’t eat the same. I looked over, and this time, I noticed in front of him, was a bowl of mashed potato that he dug into with a fork.
“Again, I am sorry,” I said once more, not wanting to cause upset. “I’m Jolie, by the way.” I hadn’t told Woodrow my name until now. I’d told no one but Nessie and Wynter.
Like Woodrow, Ville hadn’t asked. Maybe they were waiting for me to feel comfortable enough to introduce myself. I kinda liked that I wasn’t rushed.
“I’d like for us to be friends.” A gentle smile approached my lips. A smile for him—my new friend. And for her, his mother, who I turned to show my gratitude for all she and her family had offered me, in return for such an innocent request. . . friendship.
I felt different being up here in the bedroom of a young child. The gratitude was slipping from my body. The fullness of my stomach made me feel sick, not safe. Grief was rolling back in and churning everything I’d eaten over into one giant wave.
I swallowed hard, keeping it at bay. Keeping the emotional vomit inside.
I stepped deeper into the room, the thick carpet comforting my toes as I walked. The pink color looked pretty against my skin, but the feeling reminded me of home, of the carpet I’d have to creep across to take my dad breakfast in bed, whenever I wanted to surprise him.
“Do you not like it here?” Nessie’s little voice questioned.
The small pajama-clad person moved towards me, sleep in her hazy eyes.
“Momma says change can be hard. She told me not to pester you.”
I had no idea when Wynter told Nessie those words, probably while I was in the bathroom and she was in here, tucking her daughter into the bed she was still meant to be in.
My eyes moved up, trying hard not to allow her to see my tears. “I’m okay.” I put on my big girl pants, and I lied to the child.
“It’s okay if you’re not,” she told me, probably having no idea what it meant not to be okay.
“I’m just. . . I’m missing my dad,” I said, slumping down on the lower bunk of a purple bed.
“Where is he?”
“He died recently.”
“I heard you talking to him in the bathroom. At first, I thought you were praying. Momma said not to interrupt.” Nessie took a seat at my side, a blue bear tucked tightly into her chest, covering the design on her nightdress of the same color.
Nessie was right.
I had been talking to him in the bathroom, asking for guidance and support through whatever this situation was.
“It’s better not to keep all your painful thoughts inside,” I told Nessie a truth, one my dad had told me so many times.
“Do you keep a diary? You could write your thoughts in there.”
Before I could tell Nessie that I owned absolutely nothing—even my dignity and pride had been stolen from me—she chirped again, that big Nessie grin on her little face, “I have one you could use!”
She rushed off, taking my hand and pulling me along.
My eyes roved over the wonders of her room.
A million toys—or, at least, a number somewhere close—lined the walls, all demanding, with their bright colors, to be played with.
White voile blew in the gentle night breeze, looking like the hung-up gowns of an angel.
We stopped at a treasure chest—a trove of items Nessie had no time for. Her hand turned the little key already pushed fully into the lock. Her arms pushed up the lid, and she dug through the contents inside as if she was actually looking for treasure.
“I got it!” Nessie raised a book into the air, too quickly for me to catch more than a glimpse of it. She slammed down the lid, and it rattled the room.
Her voice and loud actions brought in another voice, “Okay, ladies, it’s time for bed.” Wynter stood in the doorway, her signature green pajamas hiding most of her body as she rested her tired body against the wooden frame. “It’s been quite the day.”
“Sorry, Momma. I was just getting a gift for Jolie.” Nessie looked up at me, still smiling. She really was the happiest child, not that she could be anything but with a room like this. She had everything she could ever want.
She handed me the book, and I thanked her.
Her little legs rushed her in the direction of our beds, and before I could turn to join her, she was already halfway up the metal ladder to the top bunk.
“Good girl, sweetheart.” The look on Wynter’s face spoke of the love she had for her daughter—her mini best friend—and, somehow, I felt a strange hope from it. Hope, that one day, I could have a family again—a mini-me who’d bring genuine smiles to my face.
“Are you okay?” Wynter’s voice penetrated my daydream, and just like everything else in my life, it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“I’ll be okay.” Another lie told.
“It’s gonna be hard. You’re going to hurt. If you need anything, I’m right down the hall.” She must have sensed my avoidance of voicing my feelings. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” she said, and then she was gone, turning the light out and concealing us in a darker space as she left.
The door clicked shut.
I walked through the lamp-lit room—under the stars projected on the high ceiling—in the gifted pjs that continued to remind me with each uncomfortable step that they were too damn small.
Wynter was smaller than me, and she was definitely a woman who enjoyed being skinny, because there was barely an inch of breathing room in her clothes for her body, never mind mine.
I slipped under the covers, diary still in hand.
“Do you want to sleep with me?”
I wondered if Nessie was afraid to sleep alone, though her voice gave no indication.
“Would you prefer me to?” I asked, fluffing my pillows, pointlessly.
“You have a double bed; I’ll get in with you if you want. Sometimes, Momma sleeps with me if I get a nightmare.” Her little face was in my view, her body hanging over the rail of the top bunk like she was some kind of bat-baby.
I didn’t want to alter the look on her face—the look of pure belief that she could change how I was feeling by cuddling at my side.
“Okay.” I smiled, false but believable enough to have her drop down the steps of the ladder.
She crawled into the bed that was now mine, her little body snuggling close as she moved under the sheets.
“I know you miss your daddy, but I’m a good sister.” She wrapped her arm around my neck, holding me close. And a tear that she wiped away with her small hand, rolled down my cheek.
“You’re lovely.” I smiled again, and this one had a little authenticity to it.
Her fingers got lost in my hair, curling it and twirling it around her digits. And within moments, she was asleep. Her small body had depleted of energy for the day, her brain ready for rest. A light snore echoed through her pink and pouty lips, and that brought another smile to my face.
I waited until she’d rolled over—curling into a strange position that only children seemed to do—to open the diary that she’d generously gifted.
I pressed the button on the side of the pretty cover. The book unlocked, and I flipped the cover over, no longer seeing the pink horse with wings that filled it, or the love hearts stamped on the animal’s rear that reminded me of the pain in my heart as it continued to break.
I thumbed through the pages to the correct date and month. The day wasn't accurate. The book was set a year in the past—a place I needed all my painful memories to be hidden but not forgotten. Voiced and concealed and archived within this journal.
I rolled over. Propped up on my elbow, I pulled the pen from its holder on the side, then I began to write.
Dear diary. . .