The house fell into silence, the only thing echoing was the shards knocking up against each other at the base of Oliver's feet.
In the living room, the oldest twins stared out the window silently. Willow held onto Sammy as he held onto her. They seemed terrified of the darkness beyond the glass, but he could care less. What had his full attention was the glass and pieces of plates at his feet.
A high and low feel was running through his veins as he swept, sudden anxiety spiking in him, though he decided it was best to ignore it. This itch made him want to chew at his fingers and tear at his limbs, but he refrained.
His oldest daughter, Emma stood there, watching as he cleaned up the plates. She was silent, eyebrows furrowed, her eyes tracking the motion of the broom. Emma hesitated to ask, but the question was burning her up inside.
"Is mom coming back...?" Oliver paused, staring down at the plates she shattered on the floor at his feet before she left. It was that sound he heard that triggered something in him. The low that flowed through his veins that far outweighed the artificial high he started to turn to.
It was the sound of plates shattering and screaming that haunted him, and he suddenly saw himself in the same situation his father found himself in, only he wasn't the aggressor. His older sister would make fun of him, poking at his skin, laughing at his tears. She was far older both mentally and physically. Besides Derek's small hiccups of his muted cries, Oliver was the only one that cried silently. But no matter how quiet he kept himself, Wylie would make him the butt-end of her infinite jokes and pity.
Power was constantly taken from him, bruises always forming on his body because of his sibling's abuses. It was a sickness that took the weakest one by surprise and dragged them down into depression and eventually suicide. In order to stay alive, Oliver had to adapt. He ended up in a position where he could never be hurt again.
Or so he thought.
Sarah's outburst was a familiar sound, and he figured he'd be used to it by now, but Oliver was wrong. Horribly wrong.
"Your mother...?" Oliver glanced at his daughter, feeling his hands trembling from the sensations running through him. A fleeting high and a sorrowful memory. He began to remember his mother, how she fell to his father's control. Only she didn't have the strength to leave.
"Your mother did this..." The words slipped from his mouth. Oliver swept some more shards into the dustpan, huffing.
"She tried to hurt me by throwing plates. She wouldn't listen." He said, picking up the dustpan and dumping the shards into the trash. Emma stood there silent, watching as her father straightened and groaned. Alex began to creep up, eyebrows furrowed.
"Your mother doesn't care enough about us to come back from the city." Emma fell into silence. Oliver curled his lip, closing his eyes as if to think and keep himself from crying.
"So... she's not coming back?" Alex asked, his eyebrows furrowed, the smallest trace of tears in his wide eyes. Oliver shook his head, sucking his lips in.
"No. She's not coming back."
The echo of his answer left Willow shaking with sudden terror. She snapped her gaze back to the darkness, searching for any sign of their mother's car. Sammy looked at his older sister, eyebrows knit and eyes wide as if to ask if what he was saying was true. Willow looked back out to the darkness, muttering to herself silently.
Mom wouldn't lie to us. She continued to stare, waiting for her mother to pull back in and take them with her back to the city.
No. No, mom wouldn't lie. Though the certainty in Oliver's voice let in a trickle of doubt into her own mind.
Would she...?
YOU ARE READING
The Grean Household
Romance"It was a mistake..." She told her mother, folding her hands into each other. "Marrying him..." Her mother said nothing, she simply sat there as her only daughter stood across from her, on the verge of collapsing from bruised ribs and cracked shins...
