Captive

Chapter Twenty One

The years faded away , tumbling backwards making her almost dizzy with the tornado effect, the rush of the wind in her ears as memories that she had blocked for so long surfaced, thrashing against her mind. Grey eyes which she had pushed into the deepest pools of her mind suddenly stared out at her, as if daring her to speak, to remember his voice, his touch, his name. She managed to banish him generally until the night came and his shadow crept out to haunt her dreams, make them into nightmares. But now he was standing in front of her, unseen by anyone in the room except for her, as tall and handsome as he had been the day she met him, his lips curved in an arrogant smirk as he looked her up and down making her feel inferior. He had been careful of this, making it very clear right from the offset that she was unworthy of his attention, which had in turn made her want it all the more.

At seventeen Juliet was home for the summer from school; when she returned it would be her final year there before she took on her degree at Merriton. She was generally a happy, studious but reasonably confident young woman who was aware of her prowess in Literature and confident of a future career in this area. That summer was not to be one where she was in Canada as Rebecca was not well and Michael felt having a guest would be too much strain for her. She had swallowed her hurt at being referred to as a guest by her own father and decided that she would enjoy a summer break at home for once, spending time with her mum and perhaps making use of the university library while she was here. Rachel had been happy enough for her to be home; Juliet was no trouble to her and in fact often proved herself a great help as she took on chores about the house and was happy to cook and clean leaving Rachel free to pursue whatever literary fancy had taken her.

But that summer it was not a literary fancy that took her mother's mind; Rachel was head over heels in love with a colleague. Edward Turner had been on the scene for quite some time and was now living in the apartment Juliet called home. She found the living space quite different, the previously ramshackle shelves where Rachel had left her books to fall in any order they took were now organised in alphabetical order by author and then title and many of the books she knew her mother had loved seemed to have been overshadowed by Edward's preference which leaned more towards classic adventure or Science Fiction. Juliet found her own books had been relegated to the shelving in her bedroom, along with the few ornaments she possessed, making her feel like a guest in her own home. She tried not to resent it, reminding herself that she only stayed here in the holidays while Edward now called it home. The old comfy armchairs with their faded flowery patterns were also gone, the ones she knew had belonged to Rachel's parents who had both passed away before she was born, replaced with uncomfortable black leather chairs and a sofa which looked rather beautiful but were certainly aesthetics over comfort. Rachel no longer curled up with her feet tucked under her reading a book; she sat rather upright with her legs neatly crossed, looking strangely formal in the once retreat like room.

The kitchen had also been replaced, the tatty yellow units which had seemed to match the old apartment so well had been ripped out and modern, glossy white units put in their place with shiny silver handles which Juliet seemed to catch her hips on every time she went into the kitchen to cook or make a drink. The only thing that remained was an old oak dining table and chairs which had also been Rachel's parents' and Juliet rather suspected that this might be an oversight on Edward's part as she fully expected to see it gone the next time she was home. She tried to tell herself that none of it mattered, that it was all just material things but it left her feeling like an alien in her own home; everything familiar had been replaced and it no longer felt like the home she had known. Only her own bedroom still felt the same and she took to spending most of her time in there, curled up on her bed reading or sat at her desk writing. She had taken quite an interest in Jane Austen and was reading book after book about her favourite author and then making notes about her life,enjoying comparing anecdotes with the stories she had so loved reading over the years, wondering if some of the people Jane had known in real life had made it into her books.