The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 17

From her bedroom window, Dianna sat and peered out towards Mr. Moore's house. The chair cushion no longer soft under her thighs. Confined to serve out her week-long suspension, grounded by her father and ordered to stay put in her room. She accepted this, though in a deeper sense, it was simply her father's way of mending his bruised ego after unsuccessfully persuading the principal to repeal her suspension. So a week in her room it was, to 'think long and hard about what you've done to this family.' She had never seen his face so red, or anything so red for that matter. His anger was overwrought, as if the world was coming down in shattered pieces never to be rectified, as if he'd never gotten in trouble as a kid—an overreaction in her mind, but what could you do with a father who cherished conformity to his rules over burgeoning youthful individuality and experience. But in all actuality, there would be no contemplating the tire slashing incident, no shame really. No repenting for the grief supposedly brought upon her family. Sure, it was wrong but that was the allure. Breaking from her parents unyielding expectations, and getting into some trouble for once was the most fun she'd had in a while. It was thrilling, and Lucas gave her that tiny bit of much needed bliss. Instead, she would use this time productively and keep vigil over Mr. Moore's dilapidated house, with the hopes of catching a glimpse or clue that Lucas was trapped somewhere inside.

However sitting and watching, filled with a feeble 'hoping' feeling wasn't enough.

The stillness of Mr. Moore's front yard, and the purple bruises of evening settling overhead seemed to thrust her into wanting, no needing, to do more. As improbable as it may have seemed, the house had gotten uglier and, she swore, began growing in size as if embellishing its hideousness would force her to look away. Mashed brown and orange leaves remained in lifeless heaps around the ghoulish crooked tree out in the front yard like a sacrificial shrine, warning against stepping foot on the premise. The more she monitored the house the more she became convinced the house knew what she was thinking. Its idleness gave way to a feeling of emptiness that scared her deeply. Not a single window or door opened, not a single light flickered. No one entered, or exited. The house faked this appearance of dormancy, she thought, to whittle down her perseverance, in an effort to lull her into a sense of hopelessness. What other horrors existed in the confines of that terrible structure. Mr. Moore's mutilated face was in there, somewhere.

Did she possess the courage to get into Mr. Moore's house? At times she was tempted to pull the shades down and forget it all. Her hand gripping the cord, all she had to do was give a tug and the shades put the house of sight. But not out of mind. The guilt of sending Lucas off alone would not let her forget. She would find some way to make it right. Throughout the days, she had considered revealing what she knew about Lucas to her parents, especially after witnessing his mother's torn expression. But that felt cheap, unsatisfactory. Simply passing on the burden of action to others. She had been the reason Lucas ventured over there in the first place, so it was her responsibility to get him back. She wanted forgiveness for being selfish. She needed to make things right and the only way to reconcile this was to go to Mr. Moore's house.