The Turner house was built on the boundaries of two neighbouring towns which meant half the kids went to one school, the other half to another, it even had two addresses; it was revered as being a house that brought two worlds together, helping children to find their forevers. To anyone outside of the walls decorated with that god-awful floral paper and exhibiting Mr Turner’s art, this was a haven. I learned quickly, you can pretty hell up with all the flowers and trinkets you want—it’s still hell.
My new foster parents were great actors, i’ll give them that. The more time I spent there, the less of myself that remained, like a flower trying desperately to flourish in a dank basement, the only signs to life a dirt-covered window barely letting in the light, teasing my petals with the promise of more. We were conditioned with what was an acceptable narrative to relay to others who got a little too curious. How they were perceived by the community was important to them—because who would suspect the happily married young couple of abuse and torture? MrTurner liked to think of himself as an artist, owning a little shop in the town centre where he sold pieces that most often looked like he had haphazardly thrown paint cans at the canvas and slapped on a price sticker. I said nothing and smiled dutifully as he sat us down around the dinner table and explained the inspiration for each piece, never understanding the grim wash of a sickly green tinge darkening the faces of some of the kids who refused to make eye contact with him.
“It’s pain, torture, innocence.” He had grinned proudly, his t-shirt splattered with the maroon paint dousing the canvas, the image created with blacks and deep oranges beneath visible most at the edges where the paint hadn’t quite reached. “You need to look beyond the surface level, peel back the layer to truly discover what’s beneath.” To my little brain, his cryptic speech sounded like a chapter pulled from a C.S. Lewisbook. Naive as I was, it took me a good five years to realise his poetic grandstanding was to taunt the other children at the table, the ones who had already bore witness to Mr Turners depravity.
It was after theaccidentaldeath of Lily Mayfair that I learned it wasn’t what we all saw at first glance with Mr Turner’s art that was important; it was the drawings of what he did to the kids under his care that lived beneath the splash of paint the world saw. The sketched secrets hidden in plain sight. Lily Mayfair walked herself right off the bell tower of the town’s church with a smile on her face, but it was Mr Turner and his complicit wife who were the ones who pushed her to it.
When I turned eleven, I had begun what Mr Turner called my‘priming.’The beginnings of womanhoodchanging my body in ways that garnered attention from my foster father that I didn’t like. Living with Nathaniel Turner, you never knew what version of him you were going to get.Perpetually held in limbo on a knife’s edge, waiting to see what personality greeted you before bed.
I wasn’t stupid enough to go against the Turners; they had made it clear what we could expect if we brought the law to their door. Lily was a cautionary tale for every kid that got a little combatively bold.
I did the next best thing; I found twin souls who helped me to forget my life in the Turner house, for the brief time I got to spend with them. Two scruffy boys who worked on the neighbouring farms three streets away from my foster home. Their dreams of one day owning their own ranch, grafting during the day and working on their art of an evening by the open fire under the stars almost to good to be true. I don’t think they realised how magical that had sounded to me.
The day our lives intertwined, I had been swimming in the lake behind their property. I had stopped showering at home, not entirely convinced that Nathaniel hadn’t rigged the bathrooms with cameras, like he had the rest of the house. I’d shower at school or the local gym, but on this particular day, I felt like an open-air swim would do me a world of good. At the fork in the road where I’d usually turn left towards home, I decided to turn right. Hungry for an unknown adventure. I had just received a D on my maths quiz, and I knew the second my foster parents found out, I would pay the price for the failing grade. I had an image to uphold. I audibly gasped and dropped my backpack as the lane opened up into a clearing that lookedlike an oasis, bursts of sunlight filtering in through the canopy of tall trees surrounding the clear blue stretch of water, the silence only broken by the lapping of the water against the shore. The air was crisp and cool, the scent of fresh herby beef stew dancing on the breeze and making my belly grumble. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a homecooked meal from scratch. I wanted to get lost in the moment of serenity this place afforded me, before I was summoned back to the madness at home, that I knew I’d inevitably have to face.
I must have swum out and floated there for an hour, letting the current push and pull me wherever it wanted to. A rustling in the trees and retreating footsteps snapping twigs as they hurried back around towards the dilapidated barn, was what had me rushing out of the water, not knowing who it was that stalked around in the forest unseen. My initial panic was that Mr Turner had found me—or worse, one of my foster siblings who could run home and tell on me to ensure they were clear for a beating, for tonight at least. But I quickly realised it was someone else, two someones I’d later learn. Hanging from the tree was a freshy laundered towel, with the nameCalebhandstitched into one corner. It would be the first of many instances where those boys cared for me.
CHAPTER TEN
EBONY
Tugging on the sleeves of my cardigan nervously, it takes me two drinks, one shot, and all of twenty minutes to decide to adopt the crazy and fully commit to Megan’s line of‘go big or go home.’
“When in Rome,” I say before popping the small pink pill between my lips and washing it down with a mouthful of cheap beer that leaves a grainy residue on my tongue.
“Give that ten to fifteen and any nerves you have will melt away.” Megan beams as she follows suit and knocks back a tequila shot to chase her own pill. Pulling her bright red lipstick from her purse, she uses her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge to reapply another coat. Smacking her lips together and sighing as she offers it to me.
“I’m good, thanks.” I smile back, wishing the buzz of whatever party-aid I’ve just taken will hurry itself along and start taking effect. Megan pours another two shots ofthe salt-tinged amber liquid, and I swipe it from her before she has a chance to offer it to me.
“Try to have a little fun. Mingle, be merry, and try not to hit anyone,” she croons, spotting Mateo on the other side of the house as he enters through the doorway with a crate of beer over his shoulder, Brandon following close behind with a box of spirits.
I down the shot and revel in the warmth that blooms in my chest. “Right back at you. You left your scissors at home, right?” I choke out, and she hits me with a smile and a thumbs up before she turns on her heels and bounds over to Mateo. He has exactly five seconds to pass the box of beers to Brandon, who sways under the weight, before my roommate is jumping up into his arms. She’ll definitely need a new layer of lipstick after she’s done branding Mateo.
The chatter around me builds, the house growing warmer as more people filter in through the open bay windows that lead out to the pool area. The pang of jealously gnaws unwelcome in my gut as I peruse the crowd for a familiar face. Any face.
‘Try to have a little fun.’Megan’s words play on repeat in my head as I see couples laughing, dancing and kissing around me. How brief it may have been, there was a time where I thought I had my life mapped out. I had escaped the torture, but I had lost them in the process.
Hints of leather, smoked wood, and bergamot fill my nose as I stumble against the kitchen island to steady myself. Familiar scents that for a brief moment remind me of the two boys I had a long time ago thought were my forever. The memory of them, that night and the grandfairytale ending I stupidly imagined I once deserved flitters away on a tequila-hazed breeze as a girl bends over the bin beside me and empties the contents of her stomach with gasping grunts. My instinct is to help her by holding back her auburn curls as she coughs up a lung, but her entourage arrives quickly, flanking her and paying her no mind as she groans, her cheek resting against the black plastic lining.
The Hells Haven’s Harlots—a name they gave themselves—encircle us. Kaitlin, their queen bitch, eyeing my simple black dress with an assessing gaze, a pinched smirk gracing her gloss-coated lips when she notices the crude stitching around the sleeve that I had fixed myself. A dress doesn’t last you six years of wear and tear without a little upkeep. All amusement at my expense fades when she reaches my feet. Megan’s cowboy boots she loaned me are clearly worth a pretty penny with the ornate stitch design, engraved gold tips, and bejewelled heel guards. Of the twenty pairs in her walk-in wardrobe, I had immediately fallen in love with these.
“Nice boots. I bet it pays to have an obscenely rich roommate. What she’s doing here with you, I’ll never know.” She laughs cruelly. I never thought I’d be grateful for the years of physical and verbal abuse I’ve endured—the thought alone is twisted as fuck—but standing here and taking her shit doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of what I have overcome. I square my shoulders, lean in a little closer, and grin as I run my finger under the length of the pearl choker adorning her slender neck.
“At least I don’t have to fuck someone to get myself a few treats. It’s a shame these are fake.” I pout theatricallyas her mouth gapes at my clear audacity. I have no fucking idea if they are real or not; I grew up making jewellery out of pasta shapes and yarn, I don’t have a refined bone in my body. But the fact that I have clearly gotten under her skin and sowed the seed of doubt is enough to brighten my day.
I don’t say another word as I turn and head off into the lounge area. I’m sure she will think up some sadistic way to make me pay for my insolence, but I decide it’s worth it just to see her knocked off her pedestal, however fleeting the moment might be. The tug of a small smile warms my cheeks as the thudding bass and sweaty bodies fill the space the deeper I venture into the crowded house.
I’m more determined than ever to make this night one to remember. It looks so easy for everyone else. They’re so free, their joy effortless. I want that. For once, I want to bask in the feeling of belonging somewhere.
I grab blindly for a bottle of alcohol, not caring much what I select, and with a shaky breath, with little regard for the sanitary implications, I tip back my head and swallow a mouthful of the aniseed scented liquor. Emboldened by the mix of alcohol in my system, the pill finally seems to have taken effect. I sway along to the music blaring from the speakers, the bangles jingling on my wrists as I reach my arms up and wind my hips along to the beat. Letting my inner hippie loose as the judgement of everyone else’s opinions that I worry about so often floats away like dust on a warm breeze. Eyes closed, a fresh wave of that familiar mix of scents hits me. My belly sours at the intrusion of memories of them. Dimpled cheek smiles, rough hands worn by hard graft in thestables, lithe bodies soaked in sweat from being out in the sun all day.
‘Drink more. Think less,’my brain advises, and for a second, I consider it as I linger around the drinks table like I’m about ready to pull up a chair and wait out a storm.
I may not deserve all that princess shit that all the other girls seem to be obsessed with, but I do deserve to go to a uni party and get off with some random hottie just for the fun of it. I banish the memory of their faces seared into my mind, dog-tired of lugging around all that sadness and the unanswered questions.
‘Six years is a long time to be left pining for two men who likely forgot about you the second they found someone new to sink their dicks into.’
“Get a grip, Ebs,” I mumble into my drink like a crazy person, clearly delusional if I think my brain is going to stop with its tirade.
