Unforgotten

3

"WHAT ARE YOU doing?"

I jumped up from the floor, smashing my head against the coffee table in the process.

There was a huge white couch in the living room of the Miller household. For a five-year-old that color wasn't the best choice of colors. One day that little girl had gotten a mind-blowing idea to write her name with red crayon under the couch. Lucky for her it was under the couch, because she survived with surprisingly calm lecture from his father. Not lucky for her, she had also written her name on her father's favorite shirt. From that, she did not survive that easily.

There I was lying on the cold floor, trying to find that handwriting of mine on the couch, when I heard the voice.

"Sit down, please." The oldest Miller brother spoke with an unimpressed tone.

I obeyed, obviously.

He looked very intimidating, and in that moment, I wondered how that little five-year-old had ever had the courage to get close to him, not to speak about hugging him. That man in front of me was like a ticking bomb, and in any moment that ticking bomb was going to explode. One wrong move or word was going to be the end.

I cringed again.

Weston had thrown the black blazer he had worn during dinner somewhere and was now only wearing a black collared shirt. He had rolled the sleeves up, making the already intimidating figure look even more intimidating. The highest buttons of the shirt were unbuttoned, making a part of the tattoo on his chest visible. They were wings - one for mother, one for father. A long scar was holding its place in between those wings.

I looked away, realizing that Weston wasn't going to move his gaze from me. The look that he gave with those ice-cold eyes; you weren't able to see anything from those eyes, anything else than just a blank stare. There was nothing behind, not a single emotion.

I rubbed the spot on my head I had smashed against the coffee table, feeling very stupid under the gaze.

Weston sighed.
"You okay?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "I'm sorry, I was just..."

"Don't worry, it's still there." He spoke before I was able to finish my sentence. "The daub I mean."

The daub.

That it totally was. I had just learned to write my name, and as a celebration I had written it under the couch and on my father's favorite shirt. It looked horrible. It was written in capitals; the 'D' was more like an 'O', the 'E' had too many lines, the 'L' was like 'J', 'I' was just a long vertical line, the 'A' was way higher than the other letters and the 'H', well, it was not even there.

"Right."

Weston moved to the couch too and sat down, right next to me.
"It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back." I murmured giving him a little forced smile. "Home."

He nodded.
"You are a good kid, and I believe that mother raised you well, so don't mess up."

Don't mess up.

That's what they always told me. However, I still always ended up messing things up. I was Delilah, not some perfect little girl, of course I was going to mess up. That term literally matched with my name, and not going to lie, I was pretty sure that the person in front of me knew that too.