Tasteful Darkness

Chapter 8

Peter - Four years ago

Peter lays on grass underneath the blazing sun. The feeling of glowing warmth on his skin has always been a favorite of his, along with the sensation of rain pelting his body. Opposites, but equally beautiful.

He opens his eyes, squints from the bright sun, and sits up.

Althea sits across from him, busily sketching away in her journal.

The garden in front of the church has become a common meeting place of theirs. It is practically always empty save for Sundays.

"What are you working on?" Peter asks, sliding closer.

Althea holds the book against her chest. Her loose sleeves fall further down her arms to reveal a large scar running along the side of her forearm. Peter narrows his eyes before looking up.

"What I'm drawing is not important," Althea says, a twinkle in her eye.

Peter holds up his hands in surrender. "All right. I'm sure I'll find out one day." He leans back against a nearby tree. "You know," he continues, "in all these weeks of knowing you, I never asked you where you grew up."

"Different places," she says. "In the country, in cities, in forests—nearly every place imaginable until my aunts decided to start their business."

"Really?"

Peter can barely imagine being able to travel so many places. University was the furthest he'd ever been from home, which wasn't that big of a feat.

"Which was your favorite?" he asks.

Althea thinks for a moment, biting her lower lip. "The forest," she decides. "There was always so much life there. So many things to see and study and..."

"Draw?"

She nods. "Yes. So many things to draw." She lowers the journal from her chest and closes it, placing it down on the ground beside her. "What about you? Where did you grow up?"

"The country," he says. "My parents were farmers, and I worked with them before deciding to get a formal education. They did their best teaching me, but I always craved more."

"I don't remember ever going to a farm," Althea admits. "Any siblings?"

Peter shakes his head. "Only child. Aside from a few dogs here and there. What about you?"

"A sister. She lives with my aunts outside of the city."

"How long have you been living by yourself?"

Althea shrugs. "Would you judge me if I said I lost track?"

Peter isn't sure whether to smile or offer sympathy. "There are definitely some joys in being alone. That's not to say you should be that way all the time."

"I'm not. I have... friends."

There's a hitch in her voice. Peter doubts she is telling the truth.

"You have me," he offers, smiling. "I hope that helps somehow."

Althea's freckled cheeks glow red. "It does." She takes a deep breath. "I suppose in the past I didn't think it was worth my time trying to meet people. Then you stumbled inside."

A comforting silence falls over the two of them.

The sight of Althea's scar returns to Peter's mind. It was jagged in a way that meant the cut was deep. Very deep.

Peter grew up with friends who went practically out of their way to get injured. Every other weekend when Peter saw them, at least one of the boys would be bleeding or bandaged. Over the years, Peter saw them scar. The worst incident was when his closest friend James fell out of a tree the friends were climbing and ended up slicing his thigh on a sharp branch. The four boys had to carry him all the way back home where James' mother managed to get him stitched up.