Page 34 of Penance

Igroan, flipping onto my back. Brute’s throaty snoring in my ear, his heavy paw pressed into my side. I elbow his belly, trying to shuffle him over so I can get a little breathing space. When he doesn’t shift, I grunt, cracking an eyelid to find his dark brown eyes already on mine.

“You’re a lazy lump,” I grumble even as I nuzzle myself further into his giant furry body.

This is why I’ll always have big dogs; you can’t cuddle something the size of a gerbil this way. Brute snorts over the top of my head, grunting in that sleepy, ‘I’ve just been disturbed and now I’m uncomfortable,’ kind of way and I smile against his warm chest. Flinging my good arm over his back, slipping my fingers beneath his gold chain, I scratch my nails into his neck.

“You’re such a good boy, Brute,” I tell him. “Even if you do take up too much space,” pressing a kiss to his nose, I shuffle and sit myself up.

I stifle a yawn as I continue to scratch him, his long legs stretching out as the sheets pool around my waist. He nudges my other elbow with his big head, knocking my injured hand up into my chin. I’ve been clutching it to my chest for a few days now, nursing it like a wild animal would a sore foot. I know that’s not healthy, but I just don’t like people touching me. I’ve never had good experiences with doctors.

I climb out of the bed. A black t-shirt I wasn’t wearing when I went to bed last night, hitting the tops of my thighs. I pull the fabric out with my fist, bringing the soft, well-worn cotton up to my nose and suck in a deep lungful of oranges.

Huxley.

After brushing my teeth, and properly washing last night’s make up off, yeah, yeah, Iknow. But don’t lie and say you’ve never done it; we both know that you have. I head straight for the kitchen, knowing that’s exactly where I’ll find at least one of my boys. I make my way through the sunlit apartment, the heavy blinds, curtains and drapes pulled open wide, the hazy morning sun flooding my darkened halls with natural light.

The wood warmed beneath my bare feet feels nice, but it doesn’t feel like it’s Christmas in a couple of days. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow and my house feels like it’s never even heard of the damn word. There’s no stubby little tree with personalised ornaments and mint, striped candy canes on every other branch. No coloured lights tacked up around the ceiling. It feels like it could be any other day. It makes me miss the boys’ home and I’ve only been back here a single night. That’s probably the real difference. The boys’ house is ahome,my house is just, well, a house. It isn’t cosy, it’s like a gothic prison tower block and I suddenly think I actually kinda hate it. The dogs would love a garden, even a small one like Kacey, Huxley, and Max’s.

“Jesus H Christ, you look like you had a fight with an octopus,” Jacob’s very unwelcome voice chastises as soon as I entermykitchen.

I’m assuming he’s referring to my hickey covered jaw and neck. I am absolutely peppered with bruises and teeth marks, but I’m struggling to find a fuck to give.

I like it.

Jacob’s completely taken over the marble top peninsula, his large, obnoxious newspaper,‘The Independent’laid open before him. Half-drained cup of tea to his left, a plate scattered with toast crumbs to his right, a bakery box opposite his paper. His thick forearms folded over one another where he’s sitting on a stool.

“You knowww,” I hum, dragging out my last word. “You don’thaveto stay here. You could move in, sayyy, four floors down and claim your own space. It’s been vacant for you for like three years,” I comment casually.

Silently wondering where he stayed last night because it certainly wasn’t here.

He’s always been reluctant tomove in. Wants to be so far removed from the family business, he couldn’t possibly slum it here with the likes of us. You know, the people who love him, regardless of job titles.

Pulling the fridge open, my hip propping the door from closing on me. I search the shelves for a little pot of vanilla yogurt that I quickly realise I won’t find, because Huxley isn’t the one who stocks this house. I frown, sighing as I come away empty handed, letting the door swing shut behind me. I was falling into a dangerous routine, sleeping at night, eating yogurt in the mornings.Scary shit. Domesticated life is so far removed from my idea of what I want that I can’t believe how easily I seem to have slipped into it.

I used to love having Jacob stay here whenever he was back from his travels. He used to fill my head with exciting stories. I for sure think Jacob’s a hero, but lately all he does is reprimand me for behaviour I’m not willing to change.

Behaviour Iwon’tchange.

Not for Jacob, not for anyone.

Regardless of what he thinks.

“I need to be here to keep an eye on you,” he murmurs casually, like I need parenting.

I lean back against the fridge doors as he finally looks up from his paper.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I frown, my brow dipped low, my lips pursed. I do not feel very happy with that comment, like,at all.

“You’re not my father, Jacob,” I inform him flippantly.

He’s my oldest cousin. Although, our relationship paints him as more like my big brother. He’s always made sure I’m all right, but he’s never actively treated me quite likethisbefore. Like a naughty child, one who won’t follow instruction or a wild horse that can’t be broken. I’ll never be one to wear a saddle, my spirit cracked and tamed, allow a harness to be tightened around my snout and tied off to a post.

I’m a Swallow through and through, wings spread wide, wind in my feathers, the sun on my back, soaring through endless blue skies.

Wild and free.

But most importantlyfree.

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