Nightwalker

Forty-Seven

A/N: the song linked is for a certain someone as they come to the close of the book. It is meant to be an ode to the end of Nightwalker, as we have very few chapters left. Happy Reading! - Angelo

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Riordan

My father never really knew how to cook.

When he did try, we'd smile and stomach it, offering a compliment as empty as we'd be after nearly throwing it up: "Just like Mom's."

It made him beam every time, as if he couldn't see we were lying through our teeth.

Nonetheless, we ate it in a pinch, surviving quite alright with the lack of taste.

Staring at the Tupperware in the fridge, a slightly suspicious, but warm feeling spreads over my chest.

Now, I will admit the man has gotten better in the last few years, but definitely not this good.

I take out the Tupperware, examining the contents through its clear sides. Was that...spring onion?

It seemed to be a rice dish of some sort; one that looked fiery enough to melt my tastebuds, but red enough to spark the urgency to eat it.

My father wouldn't be caught dead with a spring onion, talkless of even knowing what it was used for.

Lifting the lid, I give it a sniff and instantly salivate like an infant who'd exclusively been breastfed. I needed this in me now.

Was I sure my father would catch me eating whatever this was straight out of the plastic container? Yes.

Did I care to even save some?

Hell no.

He and Sean can fend for themselves. I haven't had a decent meal in days.

I shovelled the rice into my mouth with a spoon I'd hurriedly grabbed from the utensil drawer while wandering aimlessly around the living room.

No one was home.

My brother's been spending an awful lot of time at his friends' house ever since he found out about my clairvoyance. He didn't wanna be around me much anymore--said it's because he 'didn't want to be psychoanalyzed every ten seconds,' to which I replied, 'that's not how it works.'

Now, he wasn't fearful...he was just very hyperaware.

Sure, I felt energies--lots of them. Sensing someone being tense, or scared when they otherwise gave no indication of it on their face was what came with the territory. I'd gotten good at tuning out the ones I didn't need, but I still felt them.

However, I'm starting to learn that just because I feel them, doesn't mean I'm always right about what they mean. I'm right most of the time. But not always.

With my brother's whereabouts being accounted for, that only left my Dad. The stove clock gleamed, showing its neon green digital numbers: 6:30 PM.

It was after work hours for him, meaning that he must've been out with...

Tamara.

This had to be her doing. A seemingly ethnic dish that looks and tastes good has a woman's touch written all over it.

She made him leftovers. I crack a smile at the thought of my father actually loving again. Actually being loved again.

Padding upstairs with my food, I walk into my room, nearly tripping over the mini stack of books and articles I'd left strewn on my floor.