Between The Walls

Chapter 18

6:30am

Isabelle was surprised that she still managed to wake up right on the dot.

She barely slept the night before, partly from her own train of thought and partly from the pitter patter of Brahms' feet as he paced all around the house.

What was he doing?

Listening to the quietness of the room, she guessed that Brahms had finally put an end to his little adventure. Thank goodness, because the pat, pat, pat of his feet is starting to drive her nuts.

Pulling herself up from the bed, she started her daily morning routine which consists of tidying her bed, showering, and just basically getting herself ready for the day. Against her will, her thoughts wandered back to Brahms and his parents.

They did him very wrong, she concluded. What Brahms did was bad, but the Heelshires' response to it is even worse. She did not know much about laws, but she's pretty sure that anything would be better than imprisoning him in the walls of his own goddamn house. The pity she had initially felt for them is long gone. They're selfish, and had put their own images before their son.

"He would've been better off in jail." she mumbled under her breath, brushing her hair quite aggressively. 

The metal tray and its contents clattered noisily as it slipped from Brahms' hands.

Isabelle turned around, startled by the noise. She was so focused on her musings that she did not notice Brahms entering her room. He too was startled and immediately jumped to cleaning the mess he just made.

Isabelle reached over to try to help him but he pushed her hands away. So she stood and watched as he stacked the plates, utensils, and what looks to be a sandwich back on the tray.

A breakfast? she wondered.

"What's this, Brahms?" she asked.

He did not answer immediately, but soon admitted that he wanted to make her breakfast, so he did. But he just spoilt it.

As soon as he gathered everything back on his tray, Brahms wasted no time in hightailing out of the room. Isabelle followed suit, confused by Brahms' sudden behavior.

"Why did you make a breakfast?" she asked upon reaching the kitchen.

"No reason." his reply is brief and blunt. His mood had soured.

Dumping everything -sandwich and all- on the sink, Brahms opened the faucet and let the water run on the dishes. He turned it off after a while and started to put the dishes back on the shelf without properly cleaning them.

"No no no no no no no." Isabelle stopped him, taking the dishes from his hands and putting them back on the sink.

He marched towards the breakfast nook and plopped himself down, while Isabelle started on scrubbing the plates.

Brahms' mask covers his face, but the piercing gaze in his eyes and the abrupt manner in which he moves gave no shade to his foul mood.

What has gotten Mr. Walk-a-ton in a tantrum?