Charley & Quinn [ON HOLD]

Chapter 12: Salt Sniffing

Charley POV

I jumped through the front door, knowing that my first single step into this rotten home would ruin the day. But today, that wasn't happening. I was not allowing it to happen. I was going to walk inside, dodge every human contact possible and trap myself in my room.

I was going to write in a book, scribble down my thoughts or even just call Ethan and thank him for bringing me to the beach and burning my skin into a nice olive tan.

The horrid smell of burnt toast nested below my nose as I entered the house at what was possibly the cleanest it had ever been. Now all I needed was an air freshener and a new pair of parents to match.

I threw down my feet against the hard wooden floors, as if warning them of my presence. I was also preparing the long, worthless speech they would throw my way, knowing that none of it was going to ever effect my choices in life.

If I needed advise, I would go back to my free vegetarian student counsellor.

I walked past the living room, wiping my glistening sweat beads off my hands and onto my shorts. They left an embarrassingly large sweat patch.

"Where have you been?" Paul barked, his hands clenching the remote painfully tight.

The lounge was splattered in things I could never imagine, things I never wanted to imagine. Crumbs were sprawled into the stained carpet, ash trays littered every solid surface.

May I repeat, this is the cleanest this house will ever be.

"Out with friends," I replied. "Like a normal teenager."

"I think this boy you always seem to be around is changing you for the worse."

I bawled my hands into fists, trying to beat the urge to punch every individual tooth in Paul's mouth out. He didn't have much, half of them were rotted and the other half chipped. But still, the satisfaction was driving me insane.

I spat out a sarcastic smile before my mouth fell back into a straight line, "I don't think that's possible, Paul, I'm already at my worse."

His gaze wondered back to the television, ignoring my presence and every word with it.

I couldn't handle him like I used to, I couldn't look at him and ignore the fact that he was the reason my body is bruised. I couldn't keep all the bad words from spilling out of my mouth. So I bit back the satisfaction of letting it all loose and scuttled into my bedroom.

My white spring board double bed contrasted with the sturdy brick wall behind it, of which was covered in posters and pictures of bands.

The biggest poster was, obviously, of Nirvana.

I lunged over to the shelf, pulling out an old journal that had been scribbled over with ink. I was ready to let out all my emotions on the loose sheets of paper, and then rip the evidence out like a cold heart and toss it in a rubbish bin.

The slow and screeching sound of my door opening made me instinctively throw the book under my pillow and look up. My mom was leaning her body weight against the door frame, her emerald green eyes scanning the room quickly.

The difference was, she didn't look like Joey the pot head, she looked like Joey the mother. The knots in her hair had been brushed out carefully and her very subtle freckles were covered in a light layer of make up.

She looked passable.

She walked in quietly, her green eyes crossing over to where I sat still on my bed, waiting for a punch to be thrown or a curse to be heard.