Page 70 of Penance

Batting her eyelashes at me and jutting out that plump bottom lip again, gnawing on it like a crazed animal. It’s a horrible habit, makes me want to cut it off so she can’t do it anymore.

“You’ll be sick like last year,” I tell her on a grunt.

She throws her head back, infectious laughter erupting from her chest. She sniffs as she looks at me, wiping a finger beneath her smoky black eye.

“Cam’s face really was a picture though, wasn’t it?” she roars at the memory of her puking on my squeamish younger brother as I steer her towards the large steel door. “He was greener than me.”

* * *

Fresh out the shower, smelling mundanely of soap instead of my favourite tangy, copper fragrance, I step into my bedroom. It’s black. Black walls, black ceiling, red bulbs in all the lamps and fixtures, my eyes like the dark. I thrive in it, stalk the shadows, I’m a whisper in the darkness, a ghost, a malevolent spirit. My eyes run over the four-poster bed sitting in the centre of the room, all black, silk sheets with a crimson comforter.

Which is when I see it.

Stepping cautiously towards it, I stare blankly at theoutfitlaid out for me. Tight black slacks, a white long-sleeved dress shirt and polished black loafers. I grunt my disgust at the entire thing. There’s no way I can wear any of it, not the way it looks now anyway. I pull on the too-tight trousers and slip my feet into the loafers, they’re so shiny I can see my own fucking face in them.

God, I hate rich people clothes.

The shirt.

The too tight, overpriced, long-sleeve shirt.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it… I just don’t want to be trapped inside of it.

Lifting the shirt, I cock my head, twisting my lips in contemplation. I hum to myself, snagging the shoulder seam with my teeth, I tear the arms from the shoulders. Ripping the sleeves off completely before pulling it on. Buttons left undone, the front of it gaping open.

Not trapped.

Looking in the mirror I ruffle my fingers through my wet hair. It’s shaggy on top, hanging just above my eyes when it flops forward. Razor cut, uneven, blunt and jagged, just like the rest of me. Cam cuts it, I wouldn’t have anyone else touch me, and even then, it’s not always easy with him either. Enough length to it that I can pull on the ends in frustration. It’s mussed up, sticking up all over the place, little drips of water sluicing over my face and lips. Dropping onto my soft white shirt, I look as good as I’m going to get.

At least I’ve got trousers on this year.

I shrug to myself, leaving my room by stepping into the overly white hallway. The thick carpet a subtle grey, the expensive kind your feet sink into. I drift down the grand split staircase. Coming from the left, where us kids have our suites, all except Jacob, he’s on the right with our dad’s rooms. My ridiculously priced shoes click against the cold marble as I make my way down, echoing obnoxiously in the silent space. The twenty-foot Christmas tree lit up, dressed in red and gold, sits centrally in the grand foyer, nestled between the mouths of the stairs.

This section of the house is open, all marble floors and tall glass panels, outside, the world is dull and lifeless. Thick grey clouds hang low with the promise of snow. It makes the house feel colder, if that’s even a possibility, it’s almost clinical this house, too clean. I like earth, that raw pungent smell of thick mud when its rained too hard. When the sun finally rears its ugly head and the dirt tries to suck up its rays. Looking for praise and affection from the sun, needing it to dry out.

I hate that. Everything always needing something else to survive, thrive. Although, it’s a bit like I need my Lala, I suppose.

My ears prick at the first murmur of chatter,people. I tilt my head, stretching my neck, cracking the stiffness and flexing the tight muscle. Sighing heavily, I take in a deep breath through my nose, my nostrils flaring with the overwhelming stench of perfumes and aftershaves. The mixture of overpriced chemicals souring my stomach. I don’t wear anything like that, I can’t stand the chemical smells. They irritate my nostrils and burn the back of my throat.

Following the sounds of too many people, I travel through the empty hallways until I reach the grand reception room. It’s too large and filled with too much unnecessary furniture but my dad likes it. And seeing as he built me my special room downstairs, I shouldn’t be too harsh on his over-the-top tastes. Keeping to the farthest and darkest corner of the room I slink in unnoticed, scanning over the sea of faces.

Of course, I know them all, I make it my business to never forget anyone, but then I’m a supposed ‘Super Recogniser’, so that may have some part to play in that. I can recall the face of every person I’ve ever seen, with excessive precision. My defective brain is supposedly not so defective after all. I’ve been my eldest brother’s fascination for as long as I can remember. When I was finally rescued from my captors, Jacob tried to hook me up to all these weird fucking machines to test my brain waves or some shit like that.

I bit him.

Well, I tore a chunk of flesh out of his shoulder.

With my teeth.

He needed nine stitches…

I don’t like to be played with.

My emerald gaze roves over all the insignificant players in the room. First falling to Gremlin, he’s speaking with Rubble and an overexcited woman. I tilt my head as I observe her interact, she’s bouncing around like a yappy puppy. I already can’t stand her. I wonder which one of them is fucking her. Unlikely to be Rubble, he fucks hard and fast and likes his conquests silent. I know because I’ve seen him and everyone he fucks he gags. I’ve seen everyone I know in compromising positions. You never know when you might need to use it against them.

Averting my attention to the far side of the room, my dad sits with his life partner Violet. Her petite frame nestled into his side. His thick arm tucked around her narrow waist protectively, drawing her into his side with obvious affection. Violet’s chestnut hair falls around her slim shoulders in shiny, soft waves. Her large, brown doe-eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughs at something Dad says to her.

I like Violet.

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