Aftermath

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞

Before I know it, the sun has began to rise. Relieved for the en suite, I brush my teeth and brush my hair back into a ponytail, with the same clothes I wore yesterday due to my lack of options, I grab my art bag out of my backpack, thankful that the social worker grabbed it, and walk warily out of my room.

Gratefully, none of my brothers stop me as I open the front door and step out into the vast courtyard, as expected, the sunrise is beautiful on the front of the house. Reflecting off of each window, the reflected light could almost put a forest fire to shame. I see the guards my father was talking about, but I can't be bothered to wonder why he has guards. To each his own I guess. Maybe he's paranoid.

I sit cross-legged in the grass, a far enough distance to be able to get a good look at the front of the house and I start to draw. I try to capture the shadows and the glint on the windows perfectly before the sun rises, and I feel calm right now.

With my mind focused on the drawing, I'm not focused on much else. I try to finish the piece, the sun is rising higher by the second.

I finalize some of the smaller details with a bold black pencil. When I'm finished, I shut my sketchbook and collect my pencils, sliding them silently into my bag and taking one last look at the sunrise.

I'm not completely satisfied with it and make plans to do this again tomorrow morning. The quiet helped a bit.

I walk back into the house, my sketchbook is tucked under my arm as I chance my way into the kitchen. I'm a little caught off-guard to see an older woman in their, her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun. Just as I'm about to walk out, she catches me and gasps. I stop awkwardly, feeling it would be overly rude to just walk away from the old woman.

"Oh my!" She breathes, "Bianca?" She seems like she cant believe her eyes, "Here. Sit, sit, the food will be ready in just a moment."

I'm really not hungry, but she seems so happy I couldn't possibly tell her that I'd rather cut my head off with a dull knife than force a bite of food down my throat. I don't have a good relationship with food, maybe I did once upon a time, but it's been deteriorating for a long time as food takes up such a negative space in my mind.

Where food had to be earned back at home. In ways that usually caused humiliation for me, I could eat only after dehumanizing myself or accepting treatment that would leave me in pieces.

The worst part of it seemed to be that by asking to eat, I was asking for it almost. I knew it would happen and yet I'd still ask to eat, assuming the goal was greater than the cost.

"Seems we now have another early riser, huh?" She says pleasantly, her voice breaking through my spiraling thoughts.

I wonder which family member she means until I see my brother from yesterday walk in. I think his name is Marco, his finger are in some kind of splint and wrapped in ace bandage. I frown to myself as he sits down across the table, hardly noticing me.

"Good morning, Greta," He says in a friendly tone.

So the old woman's name is Greta.

"Hi, Marco, good morning to you as well."

Marco finally seems to notice me sitting across the table, "Oh, Bianca," He says.

"Yeah," I say, awkwardly.

Its quiet for a moment longer, "How long have you been up?" He asks conversationally.

I don't fancy telling him I haven't been asleep at all, that I prefer not to sleep at night, so instead I just go with the time I went outside, "5:00," I say.

He nods.

I don't know what else to say to him, I'm not quite sure what to say to a brother you're only just meeting. Someone who knows a lot about you, but you can't say the same. "So, you have to be to work early today?" I ask, trying to keep things casual.

I'm on the verge of just leaving but I don't want to disrespect Greta who seems to be putting effort into whatever breakfast she's making.

"Not doing much of anything today actually," He says wryly, holding his hand up in explanation.

"Yeah," I say, looking back down at the table. I almost apologize.

Silence.

"So how was your life with Meredith and Daniel?" He asks me.

Meredith is my mother's first name. I guess he doesn't know her well enough to call her mom if she left him.

I think about how bizarre it would feel to tell him the truth. "It was fine," I lie, adamant to change the subject, "What do you do for work?"

He looks at me as if I just asked him to kill his entire family before seemingly thinking about what I've just asked, "Oh, I'm an um...I'm a tattoo artist."

"You're an artist?" I ask, finally looking up at him.

"I am. Why? Are you?" He asks curiously.

"Um...Some," I say. Lie number 3.

"Is that a sketchbook?" He asks. The way he asks leaves the conversation open for me to now show him the sketchbook.

"Alright now, I never said I was good," I say, deflecting and hiding the book.

He grins slightly, "Touché."

He looks up at someone behind me, but before I can react, a hand gently touch my shoulders. I stand up quickly, jerking away from the hand as my stomach lurches and my heart races at the sudden contact. I turn to look at the person, it's my father.

I take as inconspicuous of a deep breath as I can before speaking, "Please don't touch me," I ask as calmly as possible.

He and Marco both look blindsided by my reaction, but my father takes it in stride, "I only wanted to say good morning, apologies. Do you mind stepping into my office so we can talk for a moment? You'll be back before breakfast is served," He promises.

In his office with him? Is this some kind of cruel joke? I was taken from John and placed here, same intentions but I'm outnumbered now. 6 to 1. I shake my head, "No. No, thank you. We can talk here."

His expression is naturally intimidating, plus I don't know what the difference might be between us being in his office and being here. I've learned that if someone is truly evil, it doesn't matter whether they inflict pain in private or in the presence of others.

Maybe I'm hoping that if he decided to do something, Greta will be a good enough person to help me.

"Very well," My father says, sitting down in the seat beside me, his gaze pierces through me as I move my seat away slightly, again he doesn't mention it, "How are you feeling?"

I hate that question. "I'm feeling alright," I say.

I look at the plate Greta has just laid in front of me, and the food looks so good, I almost feel hungry. But their eyes are on me, waiting to see if I'll like it? I can't help but feel like like they're waiting for me to eat it, that way I'll have no choice but to repay them. Maybe it's the cynicism speaking or maybe it's my survival instincts.

I trust both enough not to eat this meal, "Thank you, Greta," I say, "But no thank you."

She looks surprised but a bit regretful, "Does it not look like it'll be to your liking?" I hear hints of a southern accent in her voice.

"It looks fine, I've just realized I'm not very hungry."

"Just leave it, Greta, thank you. You're relieved for the day, grazie," My father says. Once she leaves, he turns back to me, "I have to apologize," He says finally, his voice isn't as harsh as I expect it to be after the amount of trouble I've caused them, "I wasn't aware that Meredith had kept it from you that we existed, perhaps it was to make sure you were happy or so you wouldn't miss us when she took you away. But I take the blame for it, and in time, I'll explain everything, I swear it."

He slides the plate toward me, "Are you not hungry?"

"No, I'm really not," I say, it must be convincing because he nods.

"When you are, it'll be here."