Page 8 of Plight
I needed away from the memories I’d long buried.
I wasn’t exactly sure whathad happened after Elliot had lied to our mothers. It was all a big blur of bullshit coated in Helen’s occasional quick hugs and Mum’s rendition of the seven dwarfs as she’d happily sung and giggled while sweeping and raking the ground around us.
Elliot had been quiet. At least I think he had. I’d kinda switched him off the moment his fingers had laced with mine when Mum and Helen continued to cry and talk about the flood and how they nearly lost their babies. I’m sure they even yelled at us at that point, because periodical outbursts were something they never ceased. Apparently, no matter how old you were, if you’d done something that was stupid and dangerous and nearly cost your life, your parents had every right — at any moment of any day — to remind you of your idiocy with either a verbal scolding or a quick slap to the back of the head.
And they did.
Well, my mum did. I was fairly sure it was her way of counting her blessings, I guess, so I never complained when she did it. I could still tell that her pain and fear from that day was very raw. Mine was, too. I just tended not to think about it much. The less I allowed it to enter my mind, the less my anxiety would hold me prisoner.
A loud bang from the slamming shed door snapped me out of my inner thoughts and nearly resulted in my underwear becoming pee-covered. My body straightened, my heart pounding, the newly cast darkness making it difficult to focus on what and who was inside the shed with me.
My sense of smell instantly overcompensated my blackened vision, the earthy aroma of rich, damp soil assaulting my nose. Apart from thin rays of sunlight splintering through the broken window and gaps where shards of wood were missing from the shed walls, there was no other light source after the door had closed.
I squinted, my eyes quickly focussing on Elliot, standing with his back against the door, holding it shut.
“Danielle, I’m sor—”
“Shut up,” I snapped quietly, pointing at him while trying not to burst into tears. “How could you do that? How could you just outright lie like that?”
“Technically, I wasn’t—”
“Technically, you’re full of shit!” I turned my back to him and let the garbage bag I was holding slip from my fingers to safely land on the ground by my feet. “We’re not engaged, Elliot. We never have been, so enough of the ‘technically’ crap.”
He didn’t argue with me, but I heard his feet shuffle, together with the scrape of a shovel along the ground.
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to say what I did. And I never meant for our mothers to believe me and react the way they have. I’m just as shocked as you are.”
I shook my head and gritted my teeth. “I’m so mad at you right now. You need to fix this.”
“I know.”
His voice was much closer than it had been seconds ago. So close, I could almost feel it. Heat surged the length of my spine, and the skin on my arms and the back of my neck prickled with curious unease. I turned to face him once again, as I didn’t want the disadvantage of him out of sight. My senses were already on high alert, not to mention his close proximity wasn’t helping.
With my eyes now adjusted to the low light, I noticed he’d propped a shovel against the door, keeping it shut. Such a thing would normally freak a person out, as it was your typical serial killer move. But fear for my life as he stepped toward me wasn’t my natural response. And though I did feel fear, it wasn’t that type of fear. It was the fear of how my body was reacting to his advance, mixed with familiarity of a time I’d long forgotten.
Bending down, I quickly picked up the garbage bag I’d dropped, needing some form of protective shield — my faster heart rate, elevated temperature and quickened breaths were freaking me out.
“You need to stop,” I blurted as I straightened.
He stopped walking toward me, as if he’d suddenly encountered an invisible wall.
“I mean you need to stop this lie,” I continued. “It can’t go on any longer. You need to tell them the truth.”
He tilted his head to the side and lightly dragged his gloved finger across his chin. “I’m wondering why you didn’t tell them the truth.”
“What?” My arm fell to my side, the garbage bag clunking to the ground yet again. “I tried to but you stopped me, remember?”
“Initially, yes. But you’ve had more than enough chances between then and now to come clean, so I’m curious as to why you haven’t done that.”
I swear the arsehole was smirking behind his big, gloved hand — his ice-blue eyes cool and mischievous. I wanted to block their vexatious glare by tossing the garbage by my feet at him.
“Why?” I growled, gobsmaked. “Because you got us into this, so you can get us out.”
“What if I don’t want to get us out?”
His response was so cool, calm and collected that it made me laugh. And not a hyena laugh, more a you-can’t-be-serious laugh. “When did you become so ridiculously crazy?”
“When did you become so cynical?”
