Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(6)
“What about your friend Maggie? How is she doing?” Charles asks next.
“She’s fine,” I mumble to the table. To discourage more questions, I shove a forkful of potatoes into my mouth.
Dad says something about football again, and Charles dives back into that discussion. I shift my attention from him to Mom. She looks tired. There’s a new bruise by her temple. She’s doing her best to hide the pain, though. She butters a piece of bread as if it’s her sole purpose in life.
“Sarah, my glass is empty,” Dad mutters, and my mother doesn’t hesitate; she gets up, a weary shadow. Charles says something about how good the pork is. There’s no way to ignore what’s happening, but he’s always done his best. The three of us eat in stiff silence. The food is a tasteless lump on my tongue. Tim keeps his head down and Charles’s knee bounces. My gaze strays to the window again. The mist rolls over the fields.
When Mom comes back from the kitchen, I see that Resentment is following her, touching her shoulder as she sets Dad’s precious milk in front of him and sits down. The chair protests by uttering a long groan. The conversation doesn’t continue. We’re silent, a fragmented pretense of belonging, and we all know it.
When our eyes meet, Resentment nods in greeting. He’s bald—even though they’re immortal, Emotions resemble humans in appearance—and I’ve always thought he looks a lot like Mr. Clean minus the gold hoop earring. “How are you, little one?” he questions me. He’s one of the few Emotions that enjoy talking to me. Then again, he enjoys talking to anyone. Resentment has always had a chatty tendency.
I give everyone an excuse and push my chair back, slipping into the kitchen with my glass in hand. Without looking, I know Resentment will follow. No one would appreciate me speaking to the air, so I’m careful to keep my voice low as I say, “I’m the same.” I don’t bother to tiptoe around his question. When dealing with anything otherworldly, I’ve learned to avoid playing the games they love so much. I twist the knob on the sink.
Water spills over the rim of the glass and splatters against the silver sink bottom. I don’t even notice until I feel the cool splash on my fingers. I turn the knob back quickly. Resentment is appraising me. I move by him to stand in the doorway, watching the people I call family. The walls of the house creak, noticeable now because of the heavy silence.
Although Resentment has released his hold on my mother, his effect lingers. She will feel it for hours. And of course more will come to touch her during the course of the evening; it’s the way of humanity to be consumed by Emotions. She hides Resentment’s essence the same way she hides everything else. The only sign of her feelings toward Dad is the purse of her lips. Something no one else will notice but me.
“Fear has been looking for answers,” the Emotion tells me now. “I actually caught him going through some newspaper archives the other day. I haven’t seen him this intrigued about a mortal in over a decade.”
“He won’t find anything,” I say flatly. For once, I don’t have to pretend. “Fear only hunts because he’s bored.” No one in the dining room notices my scrutiny. Charles’s knife clinks against his plate. Mom and Dad discuss the crops.
Resentment doesn’t have a response to this, and we fall silent. As we stand there, it suddenly occurs to me that he might know about the presence I sensed earlier. For a few seconds I consider asking, but something holds my tongue.
Dad will notice if I stay away too long. Nodding a goodbye to Resentment, I rejoin them. Charles is saying something about Fowler’s Grocery now. Sliding into my seat, I take another bite of my barely touched meal so no one will detect anything amiss.
“I have more summons to see to,” Resentment tells me, his hairless head gleaming in the light of the chandelier. “Enjoy your time with these pathetic people.”
I can’t reply, and he vanishes. Resentment is a simple creature; he has his purpose, he is what he is, and there isn’t much more to him. He’s said before that he doesn’t understand why I bother living among humanity, living a lie. The truth is, I hide my real nature because if I don’t, my nothingness would consume me. I would become a wandering creature, with no connections and no soul. My life in Edson isn’t perfect at all, but it is a life—the only one I’ll ever have. So, even though I don’t hold any feeling for my place in this family or this town, I will hold on to it because I can.
After helping Mom with the dishes—or rather, trying to help and having her edge around me, avoiding so much as a look in my direction—I escape the house and make my way up to the loft of the barn. It’s a serene place, silent except for the cows rustling below. Gentle shafts of the fading sun slip in through the cracks in the walls. Along each of these walls, set on top of bales of hay, are my paintings. Dad allows me to keep them up here; he doesn’t use the loft because of the leaky roof. They don’t get in his way.
The paintings are echoes of my dreams. Well, dreams and images that sometimes flit through my mind at random. I put them on canvas so that I can study and possibly learn from them.
One scene occurs over and over in the brush strokes, differing only in angles and colors. One place, one event:
a beautiful girl I’ve never met before is crying out, cradling a limp boy in her arms. They look like they could be my age, or a little older. The boy’s eyes are closed, his expression one of peace. There are trees all around, and out of the shadows, a hulking, faceless form emerges. No way to tell who or what it is, since it’s surrounded by tendrils of darkness. It stands over the weeping girl, looking at the motionless boy she holds, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. And there the dream is finished. An end of one thing and the beginning of something else, but of what I don’t know.