She didn’t say a word as she tried to shift away. Her internal injuries slowed her movements. I should feel bad about them, about raping her and taking the last piece of her virginity. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel bad about taking her cunt, either, all those years ago. I was incapable of such feelings. And her mouth and wet cunt always felt too good to feel anything but pleasure, maybe in time, her ass would feel the same way, but right now, it was just a punishment. . . and we both suffered it.
Chapter 3
Jolie—aged eighteen
Icrept down the stairs, admiring the photos on the wall. Oak frames fanned over the painted plaster, memories of family activities. My eyes stopped on Woodrow, always at a distance from his parents. Always a look of pain on his face.
The house was loud this morning, music blasted through the walls, echoing in each room. I was yet to learn this would be a regular experience. Wynter had a thing for the eighties. Had no complaints about her song choices. I loved the eighties, too—my music preference, inherited from my mother, who had been a teenager throughout that decade. My only secret, silent complaint was Wynter’s voice overpowered the powerhouses who played on the TV, and it wasn’t anything anyone would choose to hear. She was God-awful, bless her. And if I knew her a little better, maybe I’d make a joke of it and tell her.
But I didn’t know her that well yet.
And my low mood probably wouldn’t have delivered it as the joke I’d intended.
I slipped into the kitchen, following the smell of fresh bread, and I followed the instructions on the kitchen table where a note sat. It read:
Jolie,
Make yourself at home.
Grab something for breakfast.
I decided against the bread, or anything that involved it, still a little full from last night’s buffet.
I moved to a cabinet high on the wall in search of a bowl for cereal. I watched Ville outside, chopping wood through the window as I prepared and ate my breakfast alone. The cereal wasn’t anything I was used to. I didn’t recognize the brand, and dampness had crept into the cupboard and the box.
After a few mouthfuls, I was moving to the food caddy to dispose of the rest.
On this side of the room, a horrible smell was developing in the kitchen, seeping from somewhere else in the house. I figured it was the food bin, and almost found myself wishing I had extra fingers to hold my nose as I lifted the lid. Luckily, the scent stayed the same, its vileness spreading no further than before.
I swilled off my bowl and spoon, washing them under the warm water of a giant tap, and placed them both into the drainer, before I opened the back door and stepped outside.
Ville stopped what he was doing and gave me a wave or a salute, it was hard to tell which in such brightness, as I had to shield myself from the bright autumn sun that was trying to blind me.
“Good morning,” I said in response, keeping my distance.
My bare toes pressed imprints into the warm soil. The sun kissed my skin—its own special way of saying good morning and apologizing for the strain on my eyes.
It felt good. . . and I felt okay. Well, as okay as I could be, though very tired.
I rubbed my eyes, eliminating the residue of a long night. I’d barely slept, waking from nightmare after nightmare to an even worse reality. . . a reality where my dad no longer lived.
Luckily, I hadn’t woken Nessie, who had slept like a baby the whole night. She was up and out before my eyes opened a final time this morning.
I followed young voices until the sound of a flowing stream interfered with them.
Woodrow and Nessie were at the water’s edge, playing a short distance from the front of the house, under the watchful eyes of their mother, who had stoppedsinging, now that she was sat like a lady of leisure out on the second-floor balcony—a beautiful space only accessed via her bedroom, I imagined.
I turned to see Wynter, a forced smile on my lips—one she no doubt couldn’t see in the distance, just as she wouldn’t have saw Nessie blowing her a kiss and her little arm throwing it into the wind.
“Hi, Jolie! Good morning! We missed you at breakfast,” Nessie regarded with a smile.
“Good morning.” The dry tear tracks on my face cracked as my cheeks balled, my false smile moving to Nessie—the look on her face gifted it a little authentication once again.
I dropped myself into the long strands of grass. The sun had tainted their green shade, dehydration yellowing the lengths.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Playing,” Nessie chirped, her small body riddled with excitement, confirming my suspicions of her being the happiest child alive. She’d made my first night here as comfortable as could be, leaving her bunk to snuggle with me in mine. She wasn’t bothered by my invading presence in her safe space; she was as grateful for the company as I was.
