Bleeding Smile

NINE

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To have allowed Teller into our home was an act that left me questioning whether Mom had lost her usual clarity of thought, or if, like me, she was waywardly overthinking again.

She was a woman of instincts and gut feelings, perpetually in tune to the natural signs of the world around her to accompany her own spiritual and religious inclinations. Consequently, throughout our formative years, she never fully warmed up to Teller, for both no grand specific and her own obscurely specific reasons. Before our paths crossed, I'd been a profoundly melancholic child, chronically lonesome and distant, so Mom often tolerated Teller's presence enough to keep me appeased while never fully embracing our misadventures and his overall influence. Strangely, I always sensed that as much as a part of her could never wholly trust him, another more subtle facet of her was endlessly mindful that had it not been for Dad, she could have easily been Amelia, I could have easily been Teller, and we could have easily been at the mercy of Elk Point.

It was a complex dynamic to navigate when your instincts were firmly distrusting but heart increasingly empathetic; which is why I used to sneak away, why I never indulged too much on the details of our hangouts even though she was undeniably privy to how much the strange boy she never approved of meant to me.

Given everything that had transpired, I could probably simplify matters for her if I confessed that Teller now wanted to ruin me and had made actual threats to end her life, but, as my present circumstances would have it, I couldn't afford to take that risk, so I attempted to stifle my shock when Mom gestured at a vase brimming with carnation flowers, and Teller, in an unexpected gesture, rose from his seat and enveloped me in a tight hug.

"I heard what happened to you," he said, loud enough for Mom to hear, but distinctly hushed enough to seem genuinely concerned, and the ease with which he could pretend to care was, as with most of everything about him these days, entirely unlike the person I'd grown up with.

"Teller decided to stop by this morning, and was thoughtful enough to bring you these flowers," I heard Mom say, but I couldn't see her, my face had already been eased into the fabric of Teller's shirt where I was pulled against his chest, and I was so mystified that I remained in his embrace; which, while warm and almost familiar, was also so full of deceit that it made my blood run cold. He smelt commonly of his wintergreen soap and of the forest, but his hug itself felt closer to misery and bondage, as if I was back at our tree and he was grimly describing just how keen he was in enacting his revenge.

While I had yet to say a word, Mom continued to elaborate on how even though our respective families had gone through a decidedly complicated patch with one another, Teller here was just telling her how I was still his best friend, how he wanted nothing more than to ensure that I was okay, having refused to leave until he got the opportunity to see me for himself. She even admitted that she took notice of his appearance at Dad's funeral yesterday, and that she, along with Mrs. Sinclair, thought it was very kind and noble of him to be able to pay his respects in spite of everything, in spite of the arrest and years of imprisonment.

As she detailed this, all I could think was, He's a fucking liar and a potential murderer who just took advantage of your grief, Mom.

Teller released me, resting each of his hands on my shoulders and looking down at me, and his face said it all; he wasn't here because he was concerned and wanted to ensure that his dear old friend was faring well; he was here to enforce how easily he could get near my mother, how easily it would be for him to carry out his horrible threats. Here he was, in our home, the most intimately singular place designed to keep us safe, and he'd been here for awhile, all alone with my mom while I'd slept and presumed I could reliably begin formulating some kind of plan to escape him and to protect her.