Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 19 - Ace

Leaving Lucilia was hard. I could see the confusion in her eyes at my anger with Nikoli, and I knew that she wanted answers. Answers I couldn't give without telling her what I do after school.

I can't do that to her. I won't, but I also can't hurt her.

So I send her a smile meant to show that I'm not angry with her and that I regret leaving her this way. This is how it has to be.

Just like how tomorrow I have to do what I was trying to do at the park: ask her out. It may not be romantic asking her after helping out Mr. Kersivats, but if she says yes, then I can try to make the date romantic. 'Try' being the key word. However, seeing as how dating is not a frequent practice of mine, we'll see how it goes. That's if she says yes, anyhow.

Our dilapidated house with its red door, symbolizing the bloody tales that lay behind, slowly creeps into view. The trees surrounding it veil it in darkness, and I cringe upon seeing the sheriff's car parked in the gravel driveway. Queenie's hand tightens in mind, and anger, seething and appearing from deep within, contracts my muscles.

Leaning down to her height, I speak calmly, "Queenie, go upstairs when we go inside."

She nods demurely, and the heartwrenching look on her face and in her eyes tears me apart. We climb the tattered porch steps together and hesitantly approach the red door. I push it open, hearing the familiar foreboding squeal. Queenie darts passed me and up the stairs, vanishing in a symphony of quiet footsteps and loud creaks. I step forward, my heartbeat climbing into an unsteady rhythm that rattles my rib cage and suffocates my lungs.

The Sheriff lounges on the couch, one disgusting thing clinging to another. As my feet hit the carpet, stained and aged, his head lolls to the side and focuses on me. I freeze, resisting the urge to follow in Queenie's footsteps and charge up the staircase. A menacing and disgusted grin, with teeth yellowed from tobacco, creeps on his face. "Well, the prodigal son returns."

I ignore him, traveling to the kitchen in search of food to feed Queenie and I. Seeing my blase attitude towards his statement, Sheriff huffs and growls out, "If I wasn't so tired from working to provide for such a worthless piece of crap like you, I'd teach you some respect, boy."

I wince, but do not respond. Instead I grab some bread and make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He shifts on the couch, and I still on my way to the stairs. My lungs seize and don't release until he realigns himself on the couch. Then I'm up the steps and far enough away to breathe properly.

For the rest of the night, Queenie and I endure through a self-imposed isolation in my room. We joke, we laugh, but most of all, we pretend that there isn't a monster beneath the floorboards.

~~~~~

Sunlight hits my eyelids right as my alarm goes off. Queenie whines beside me, slowly sitting up and rubbing her eyes with softly clenched fists. "Bubba," she cries sleepily. "I'm tiwerd."

I stroke her hair. "I know, Queenie. I know. Go back to sleep. Bubba has to go somewhere." Her eyes drift close, and I doubt she hears me.

I exit my room and go down the stairs, avoiding the creakiest parts. In the living room, I check to make sure that the monster has left for work. He has. With that knowledge, my gait eases, becoming its natural sway, and I stalk out the door.

The weather is clear. Leaves tumble from their wooden shackles, free at last. One hits my head, snagging in my hair. I pick it out, twirling the red leaf, watching as each twirl causes it to crumble just a bit more. Soon enough, all that is left is the skeleton of something beautiful. It looks mauled and beaten. Broken.

I drop it.

Picking up my pace, I sprint. I race the airborne leaves and flying birds, as they make their journey south. Once I had stepped one foot out of that house, I had traded my haunting memories to mimic the wind. I am out of my prison and in my element. I am myself. Or at least as much of myself that is left.