Helen, Helen, come home, there was a Helen before the War, but who remembers her?
▍ AN ORIGINAL STORY ╱ psychological thriller!
❪ multiple oc's ❫
written by april
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CHAPTER THREE ╱ Blood-Stained Lamb
THE BLACKTOP WAS HOT AGAINST THE TREAD OF RIVER'S TIRES. He'd cut the time it took to travel to Tatum's in half. It was nearing seven thirty. His sirens blared, drowning out the noise of his thoughts, as he veered down the pathway of Mariposa Drive.
It was a lengthy drive that was encompassed by a swarm of maples. Truthfully, he was astonished by Tatum's selection of such residential seclusion. The forest, the winding path, the absorption of nature—he'd be in denial if he said it didn't remind him of the Summer of '76. It was something he figured she'd stray from, all things considered.
And surely the events of that summer haunted Tatum like it had haunted him. A year evoked by a looming spirit of things long forgotten, of things left buried.
As the road widened, a house came into view. A Tudor-style home with an intricate design scheme that River didn't favor. Shrubs lined the front of the home. Looped around a giant oak tree planted at the base of the yard, a wooden swing painted a dusty rose. He swallowed harshly.
Stood against one of the white front porch banisters, a familiar face lacking age, but absorbed by a newfound maturity. Her hair was darker, and a lot thicker than he remembered. Front bangs curved around her cheekbones and bounced outwards. Her pale skin was a few shades darker, her legs a bit longer and left concealed behind a pair of denim jeans that she'd rolled at the ankle. Tucked inside of them, a blue sweatshirt, and a brown belt cinched at her waist.
Her arms were settled against the lower half of her stomach. As he slowed his vehicle to a stop, he watched her eyes soften and fill with relief. He'd seen the look before.
He flicked off the engine and raced towards her. Without haste, she flung her arms around him and bit back another sob. Their chests collided with a light thump. He could feel her heart pounding vehemently. Tightening his grip around her, he felt her release a bit of tension from her shoulders. She was frailer than she had been ten years earlier.
A shadow of the girl she once was . . . or rather the girl she dreamed of being.
Her voice was muffled against his neck as she spoke. Her voice was softer in person than it had been previously via telephone.
"Thank you for coming."
Strengthening his hold on her, he lowered his chin to the top of her head. "Of course."
She shifted beneath him and an awkwardness coated the air they shared. She emptied her throat, refused to meet his eye and beckoned for him to follow her inside.
He watched her backside move swiftly through the air. Her bones were bare beneath her sweatshirt. One of her shoulders had become exposed while they had shared a brief embrace. She scooped it up between her pearl-painted fingertips. He silenced his thoughts. Now was not the time. Some things never change, do they, Riv?
