Stain (Stain #1)(6)
She nods. “Just don’t take too long, you know how Daddy gets.” Yes, I do. He’s anal-retentive about most things, and it doesn’t help that his very short fuse goes hand in hand with his neurosis. Being punctual is something he demands of every member of the family, and failing to comply has had adverse effects in the past. The bruises from those mistakes have healed now but they have left ugly scars beneath the surface of my skin. Scars that no one will ever see.
When she leaves she doesn’t close the door behind her, but I won’t be in my room for much longer. Putting the blow-dryer on low, I take hold of the black, wooden back, boar-bristled brush and make short work of drying my hair. It’s roughly twelve minutes later before I set the dryer and brush back down, confident that I’ve taken out every last bit of moisture from the blond strands. It’s not too often that I leave my hair unbound and today won’t be any different as I section it in two parts and go to work on plaiting one side and then the other into my customary French braids. Tying the end of each braid with a clear elastic band from the container closest to the mirror, they hang like two golden ropes down my back. Stepping away from the vanity with the knowledge I look as I’ve always looked, plain, modest, and inconspicuous, I head to my bookshelf to find my scriptures, notebook, and sketchpad. My beige canvas bag and book bag are flopped along the side of my study desk, exactly where I left them the night before. Grabbing my canvas bag, I set my bible, notebook, and sketchpad inside, along with my dark gray charcoal case holder. With any luck I can sneak away during church to get some sketching done.
Chapter 3
Aylee
I make my way down the hallway of the single-family home that they’ve had since before I moved in with them. Artistically placed over the flowered wallpapers are framed photographs of me and them over the years, before Sarah was born. Christmas and birthday photos display a loving family, flanked by Rachel and her ever-present Stepford wife smile at one side and Timothy, the bulky, grim-faced police detective on the other, with my place always being between them. I’m not smiling and I don’t sport exactly the same grim expression as Tim, but I’m just there. Expressionless. I prefer looking at the opposite wall because the photographs on that wall ring closer to the truth. Sarah and her parents—even though it’s not entirely true—give the semblance of a loving, authentic family.
The stairs creak as I descend, making my way to the kitchen. The house’s décor brings to mind a dated bed-and-breakfast. The same pale yellow, flowery wallpaper from the hallway is a persistent theme throughout the house. Speaking all too clearly of Rachel’s bad taste in décor. In the living room, two couches and a love seat in blush rose upholstery dominate the space. The focal point of the living room is the red stone fireplace around which each piece of furniture has been placed. The room further saturated by the massive china cabinet on the left-hand corner. There are more photographs on the mantel, but thankfully fewer of me.
When I finally make an appearance, it’s to find them all in the kitchen. Rachel is at the stove where I’m sure she’s been since seven AM this morning. My eyes shift to the digital clock on the microwave situated on the countertop that now reads half past nine. Two and half hours in the kitchen prepping breakfast for an army when there was only three people to feed. Looking at her, you wouldn’t know she’s been slaving over a hot stove. She’s always been meticulous with her appearance, today she is doubly so because it’s Sunday and church is like her personal runway show. She pays special attention to what she wears. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up into a clean, tight topknot. The smattering of freckles typically visible on her pale face are expertly covered by a touch of makeup. Her lavender dress fits her petite body nicely, but not tight enough to make it indecent; the gold belt that cinches her waist is a perfect accompaniment to the gold heels at her feet. She wears a large statement necklace that offsets the dress and the watch Tim had gotten her for her birthday a few years ago. Everything looks in place. Perfect. No one would momentarily suspect that beneath the white cardigan she wears over the dress lay healing bruises Tim had given her the week before in one of his alcohol-induced rages. Those imperfections she hides well from the world. She and I are alike in that way.
“There you are,” she greets with reproach when she finally notices my presence. “Any longer and I was going to send your father up there to check on you.” I do a good job at tamping down the automatic cringe the notion conjures and instead grab the glass of orange juice she offers. With her nose stuck in a book, Sarah barely notices when I glide on the chair next to her.
“I had a late night,” I say, quietly, taking a sip of my juice.
Alarmed, Rachel turns to me, “Is it the nightmares again? Do we need to call Dr. Peters?”
“No,” I answer, and it comes out a little too quickly, but I need to allay her concern so that it doesn’t snowball into something else. “I just have a heavy course load.”
It’s taken me close to two years to gain back some of the freedom I lost when I ended up in the hospital for cutting myself. Being forced to undergo one-on-one therapy with Dr. Peters had been one of the more upsetting repercussions of my actions. It’d been good at first. I spoke and he did what he was paid to do, listen intently while providing topical doses of psychobabble when he’d felt it was necessary of the moment. It took me two months to realize Dr. Peters wasn’t out for my best interest, but rather implemented in my life to keep Tim in the know about everything that was said in our private sessions. I was stupid enough to be lulled into a false sense of security, foolish enough to believe I could trust anyone. I trusted Dr. Peters with one of my secrets, told him of Tim and his propensity for violence toward Rachel when he drank too much. The scalding burn of Tim’s open-palm smack across my face along with the threat to keep my “goddamn mouth shut” was how I learned of Dr. Peters’ betrayal. I barely spoke in my sessions with Dr. Peters after that, and when I did, it’d been of nothing consequential. It took me having to lie and feign normalcy in therapy to eventually convince Rachel I was doing good and that my desire to join an outpatient group would be more beneficial to my treatment. But the problem came in convincing Tim. Rachel had brought up the subject to him like she tended to do concerning every decision in her life, and I’d been completely sure he was going to say “no.” So it came as a surprise when he actually capitulated and allowed me to get out from Dr. Peters’ watchful eye. Nearly a year later, and I have yet to understand why he did it. I don’t believe for one second it’d been done out of the kindness of his heart. Tim is heartless. It was always better to remain suspicious of good intentions, especially from him.