Guilty Pleasure

Nine: past's a bitch

"'What happens when people open their hearts?'...
"They get better.'"

~Haruki Murakami

Tw: mention of trauma (abuse)

Jean

These familiar walls earned the lump in my throat to tightened further. The candles had not been lit, therefore the lavender and vanilla scents did not linger in the air. Yet it was Emily that bounced off of every bit of here. It were a few lamps placed around the apartment, which enlightened the living area.

"Are you drunk?" Emily's face scrunched together and I caught the white strip over her left temple, which was almost completely covered by her dark hair.

"What happened to your head?" My hands were faster to place themselves on her face, than my mind was to remind me of what the fuck I was even doing. I tugged the hair back and examined the area, pushing back the doubts for just a moment longer. Thumb brushing above her cheek, I noticed a red mark on it. "Emily, did you get shot?"

My eyes were as wide as possible and Emily's hands placed themselves above mine, pushing them down. Yet her grip on me did not loosen.

"Jean, where the hell have you been?" She repeated her question. "And I hope you did not drive here in your condition." Was the tequila so dominant in my breath? "Yes, I smelled it and I assume the whole floor smells of booze now."

Shaking my head, I ignored her question yet another time. "You said you'd listen." I nodded quickly, the dry ends of my hair itching my neck.

She blinked a few times. "You are drunk—" I pushed out of her touch and placed my bag on the floor in front of the coffee table. Files, papers, tampons, a chapstick and all kinds of things were piling up like trash on her carpet. I searched for the papers, to help guide her through this fucking shit. "Jean, what in god's name are you doing?" She attempted to approach, though I made such furious movements in attempt to find the papers, she must've taken her distance.

Taken a seat on her couch, feet mere centimeters away from me, the brunette quieted down. The whole apartment was quiet.

I slipped a picture to Emily. "My dad forced us to take a photo like this before we'd leave for our weekly grocery shopping."

"Jean, you were gone for days—" I stared at her and into those chocolate orbs.

Emily stopped herself from interrupting and I went on. "We never really did anything like that. We were a rather normal family. I mean, I was nine when they died, so it's a little blurry. Anyway, mom and Annie were alright with taking this stupid photo, but I protested." I chuckled, reminded of the face I made in that picture. "As a result, I wasn't allowed to come along. They didn't want to look at me sulking." The woman's eyebrows furrowed. "Their words." My fingertips brushed along an item in front of me, grounding me in reality. "Annie decided she wouldn't want to come along either, if I weren't there. So both mom and dad went alone."

I grew as quiet as she did for the past few moments, meanwhile I spoke. "What happened then?"

My gaze met hers. "I kept talking to her about how unfair they are and how I'd want to leave." I swallowed, as the familiar surroundings of our childhood house dared to invade my mind. "And it seemed my prayers had been heard, because our parents did not return for hours. At first I was relieved to not be faced with them again. I knew I had to apologize for my behavior. And when it did knock at our front door, hours later night had set in. Although I knew I was not allowed to open the door I did." With a shaky hand I reached for one of the files.