Dark Paradise - Joel Miller x OC

January

I hated writing this chapter. I wonder if I didn't spread to much this story with trivial ideas. Anyway, a new part is beginning, and hopefully it will get better after this chapter. Thanks for sticking with me!

Photo by Sam Dan Truong

----

The smell is strong. Not the usual kitchen smell, not even one of those vinegar cleaning products everyone uses nowadays. No, an unpleasant smell that attacks his throat. Somewhat familiar, without him being able to put his finger on it. As Joel approaches the kitchen, he notices the brownish liquid dripping on the floor, covering the tiled floor and threatening to extend to the hardwood floors of the dining room.

A pipe must have break. The facilities aren't young after all, and it's been cold these days. He freezes as he looks up to the back of the room. On one of the chairs they use for their meals together, Chloe is curled up, holding her legs tight between her arms, panting and shivering. He rushes towards her, ignoring the dirty water splashing on his shoes.

She doesn't seem to notice right away that he's there, unresponsive when his hands touch her, his arm trying to undo the lump that her body is forming to see her better. Her haggard eyes fix on him, without really seeming to recognize him. It's only when he gently caresses her cheek soaked in tears that she finally manages to come out of her trance to pronounce his name in a painful whisper.

"Hey, it's ok, it's ok, you're safe. What happened?

-It... It smells like there."

Her voice chokes again with anxiety. He frowns as his own memories come back to him. That's right. In Boston, too, the air was often filled with the smell of sewage. There were no trees, no nature to filter the atmosphere filled with stagnant water and toxic fumes from fires lit in the vain hope of warming themselves.

He refocuses on her as her body shivers again. He knows that a word, a gesture can bring her back there, as if someone opened a door wide on her painful past. Despite her being way better, it still happens sometimes, most often when they're in bed and he has too abrupt a movement, a wrong word. But this is the first time he has seen her react to a smell in this way. Panic must have seized her quickly, and she had found no other shelter in her crisis than this chair.

He doesn't care about his floor anymore. He needs to take her to safety, to take care of her. He grabs her in his arms to lead her into the living room, hoping to be far enough away for the smell to stop tormenting her. He sits her on his laps, gently stroking her hair as she plunges her face in the crook of his neck, pulling the last tears out of her system.

"Ssh, it's ok. You're not there anymore. You'll never have to go back to one of those places, I promise. You're safe her. You're safe."

He continues tirelessly, until he feels her body relax, her fingers stopping to cling to his t-shirt. The sign that the crisis is over. He kisses her forehead and keeps her against him for a few more minutes.

He manages to convince her to lie down on the sofa, gently laying a blanket over her before putting a movie on the TV. A light comedy in soft colors, the kind of distraction she needs after those moments of panic. After a last look, he leaves her to sort out the kitchen problem. He sighs when he sees the work ahead.

After making sure nothing else is coming up the pipes and cleaning the filthy floor, he returns to the living room. He thought he'd found her asleep, but he doesn't. Gently, he lifts her shoulders to come and sit down, resting her head on his knees. As he slips a few strands of her hair behind her ears, he observes her gaze. What he sees there is no longer grief or anguish. No, it is a different glow. Guilt? She seems to notice his questioning look. She sighs a little before starting, her eyes still on the TV.