[Comments Closed]
That's right. Riiiight. Bloody torso, ripped jeans, bruises and scars... That wouldn't sit with the 'rents. Close call.
You move back to the bathroom and turn on the faucet, deciding to just wipe it all down with a towel. It hurts as the cloth scrubs roughly against the still partially open wounds, but you grit your teeth and bear with it. The freshly cleaned scabs glistened as you tried (and failed) at getting the gash on your back, deciding to just leave it before you strained your shoulder in attempt to reach that one patch in the center of your spine.
After making sure that everything was clean, you consider what could cover up all the nasty that was your skin. Now that you thought about it, the shirt you picked out would expose your forearms so your parents could see the burns and bruises. Your jeans would need to change, too. Although it's late in the spring and it's terribly hot outside, you begrudgingly pull out a turtleneck and style your hair to cover up your left temple; where there are a couple of small claw marks. You are yet again reminded of why you don't get a buzz cut.
With your appearance tidied up and nothing out of the norm, you stride to your door and wrap your fingers around the handle. Deeply inhaling, as if expecting to get slapped, you open it confidently to be greeted by the wall on the other side of the hall. Nobody's there waiting for you, and so you assume that your parents are really being occupied by their guest. Slightly relieved, you take your time meandering down the carpeted path before reaching the stairs, taking them with leisure. Lazy Sundays are the best.
As you reach the bottom step, you bring your eyes up from your feet to be greeted by an at-first familiar sight. Your parents are eating breakfast together. Your mother made waffles, but they're almost gone,
your keen eyes note, which is hardly unusual. You almost give them a tentative "good morning," but the words stop in your throat.
There indeed sits the guest that your parents are currently laughing with. Your father is joking about your attendance, how he got a call the other afternoon about your attention in class. Your mother is smiling as if she had just heard the funniest joke all day. Your blood runs cold at how perfectly normal this would seem to anybody else. And then, they notice you.
As your hand grips the banister of the stairs with white knuckles, a coy smile curls the lips of a third person. They're eating breakfast with your parents, calmly biting a waffle like nothing's
wrong. Like they weren't sitting in your house, intruding on your Lazy Sunday. Like they weren't eating your
breakfast.
Like you weren't worst enemies.
Who is it?
Credit to: Bobbie, Anonymous
Colin: Resist urge to strangle your cousin.
ReplyDeleteWell, you call her your cousin. She's a changeling, a demon who replaced your cousin when she was stolen by the Fae as a baby. She kicks puppies. She steals your things, including a cat you used to have; she later told you that she had eaten it. She once called Kait a slut.
That's only three of the reasons you don't like her, but there are hundreds more. All together, it adds up to hate.
((Miss Saxon's idea is brilliant. I give it a full thumbs-up!))
ReplyDeleteColin: Resist urge to strangle total douchebag.
It's Mr. Popular, Rick Stryker. He even has a popular-sounding name. Not like your long monstrosity. Why is he here?
...Oh, right. Soccer. You forgot today's the day that the team captain - that's Mr. Pop here - goes around checking out all the new talent. Someone had noticed your unusually fit condition and signed you up for soccer, apparently. And your parents didn't let you back out of it. You guess Stryker's here to take you for a morning run. Or something.
Colin: ...hmmm......
ReplyDeleteIt seems as though the guest is the only one who sees your face turn pale. He winks.
"May I speak with young Colin here?"
He asks, his voice like a sharpened blade dipped in blood. Of course, your parents don't notice.
"Oh, Thalia, he even knows our son's name! Go ahead."
Your father nods his approval towards your mom.
As the 'welcome' guest follows you into an empty room (guess being rich pays off once in a while- privacy),
you draw a hidden knife.