Page 31 of The Loathing

“Bye Daddy,” I just about manage, my voice tight as I pin my eyes to his.

He strolls over, his footsteps soft as he places a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll be back with Titty,” I feel his smile spread across the top of my head and a low chuckle vibrate through him.

“Idiot,” I scoff as he stands tall, his hands fisted in his pockets. “It’s Titus,” I roll my eyes and he laughs a little louder this time and I know all is forgiven.

For now.

I feel at a loss at what to do with myself. I have been unable to work since this fiasco with The Knight Brothers as my father didn’t feel happy for me to go, but now, with Titus being here my work life should resume slightly.

I pace up and down the glass outbuilding where my easels and art supplies sit. I still can’t imagine what this looked like before my mother moved in. She always told me this room was abandoned, but it led to the west wing of the house which used to be forbidden to her.

But now, there is no more separation. My mother and father had renovations done when we were all a lot younger to make the house as one and even though there are still two staircases, they both merge into the large, long landing and one leads down to the room that used to be my mother’s cell, even though she never saw it like that. Maybe she did when she was my age; taken from her family due to her father’s stupidity in gambling what little money they did have to the cruellest man in their kingdom, but as much as my father can be a dick, I can’t see how he was known as the cruellest man.

I pick the skin around my nailbeds, my eyes scanning round the room. I have too much nervous energy bouncing around inside of me.

My thumb presses to my lips as I begin to nibble on my already short and bit to shit nails.

“Filthy habit,” I hear Betty’s frail voice from behind me.

I spin, dropping my thumb from my mouth and giving her a coy smile. I have no idea why she still insists on working for my mother and father, but I think it’s because we are the only family she has. She never married and never had children, so she put her all into our family.

“Why are you pacing?” she asks, strolling towards me slowly.

“I feel a little unsettled,” I nibble my bottom lip, “I don’t know what to do to calm myself.”

“You normally paint when your mind is heavy,” her hand moves forward, wrapping her small and thin fingers round the top of my arm before trailing and lifting her other hand to my face, cupping it in a motherly manner, her cold skin against my warm skin making me flinch slightly.

“I just feel so conflicted, like I am constantly fighting with myself. My brain is screaming at me to lash out at my father for even putting me in this situation, but my heart won’t allow it because as soon as I think about going for him, my heart makes my body heavy with guilt and I know he is kicking himself over doing whatever the fuck he done wrong.”

“Language,” Betty scolds as she drops my face from her touch.

“Sorry,” I wince.

“You’re such a mix of your parents. You have your dad’s fiery temper, but you also remind me a lot of your mother when she was your age and how she always fought back with your father…” she trails off whilst she grabs my palette. “But your kind heart, that’s all your mother.”

I nod.

“Trust your father, he is never normally wrong. I know it’s not what you want, but it’s a small bump in your forever to give up… it’ll pass so quickly, just like a moment. Before you know it, your father would have fixed what was wrong and things will go back to normal,” she smiles softly as she hands me the palette. I take it, looking down and letting out a light sigh and when I look up, she has gone. Slipping my phone out my back pocket, I turn my music on and press the volume button up until it’s at max volume and I lose myself in Fast Car – Noelle Johnson.

I squeeze out pastel colours and begin swiping them back and forth on the canvas. I have no idea what I am painting, just letting my emotions lead the way. I have no idea how long I have been sat here for when my earphone is pulled from my ear and I hear my father’s voice.

“Amora, darling…” and I still. I place my paint brush on the small shelf at the bottom on the easel and slowly spin round to see my father standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his eyes pinned to me. I swallow hard, my heart thumping in my chest so fast it makes my breath catch. The sun has set and the evening is beginning to draw in.

“Come,” he steps closer to me, holding out his hand. I stand, inhaling deeply as I do and walk towards my father. His eyes soften, the scar that runs over his left eye has faded so much in the last few years, the brown in his eyes is a deep brown, some days it almost looks black. Soft wrinkles appear at the corner of his eyes as he gives me a small smile.

He tucks a loose strand of my fiery hair behind my ear and I hear a soft snigger pass his lips.

“Your painting is beautiful,” his eyes pass mine and I turn to look over my shoulder at the pretty pastel abstract painting that I have spent my afternoon on.

“It’s not too bad… not my best,” I shrug my shoulders up slightly and scoff a laugh.

“Titus is waiting in the library to meet you,” my father’s emotions change quickly and I see the hardness flash across his face, his eyes hooding.

I nod.

He moves forward, passing me quickly and I follow him like a lost little girl. Each step I take, I feel my stubbornness growing, my shoulders lifting a little more and my head is held high. If Titus thinks he is getting an obedient client, he is very much mistaken. We pass through the long but narrow hallway that runs adjacent to the lounge area. At the end of the hallway we pass the second flight of stairs that now joins both parts of the house together and within seconds, we’re standing outside the library. I wait, willing for my father to turn round and give me a reassuring look, but he doesn’t, and I feel my heart plummet into the depths of my chest. His hard and cold demeanour is guarding him, his walls up and ready to fight. I let me eyes fall to my feet, and that’s where they stay.

A low growl vibrates in his throat as he pushes down the handle of the library door and I swear I forget how to breathe suddenly when my eyes move from the floor up to see the impeccably dressed man in front of me. Handsome, very handsome. And he is tall, so tall. If I had to guess, he would be around six foot six, six foot seven. His black hair is shaved short, his stubble is short and neat and joins up to his shaved sideburns. I feel my skin singe under his intense gaze from his ice blue eyes. My heart thumps.

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