The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

Yellow

Rachel

She felt like dying. Or at the very least, shrinking down to a size where she could hide in the folds of the sofa. The imaginary folds... because there were none. Even his sofa lacked character. Rachel could tell that Joseph didn't want her there anymore. The perceptive part of her knew it wasn't personal, but the sensitive part of her couldn't help but feel rejected. Maybe he hadn't enjoyed it with her and now felt bad and just wanted her to leave.

So she ate a slice of pizza in awkward silence then announced that she should go home.

Joseph nodded with a grunt and walked her to the door.

Rachel wanted to ask him if she would see him again but she couldn't bring herself to ask. "Good night, Mr. Maxwell," was all she said. And Joseph closed the door without a word. It wasn't until the lock clicked that Rachel realized she had hoped that maybe he would open the door again and ask her to stay. The sound made her chest tighten and she leaned against the wall as she tried to stifle a sharp intake of breath. What if he was upset with her for calling, "yellow?" Or maybe he was disappointed. Rachel shook her head at her thoughts. She could sense his unease with his...preferences. She pushed off from the wall with a sigh and decided that she couldn't drive herself mad with what ifs and questions that couldn't be answered through speculation.

A lawnmower's engine woke Rachel up the following morning. She groaned and tried to drown out the noise with her pillow with little success.

"Why do they have to start so early?" she grumbled and checked the time. It wasn't as early as she had anticipated and the clock read nine a.m. The sunlight streamed in through where the curtains met and last night's events came rushing at her. Rachel blushed when she remembered how forward she had been and the blush deepened when she remembered the awkwardness afterwards. She sat up with a sigh and went to the window. A gardener was busy collecting fallen leaves while another took a weed-wacker to the unruly plants growing around the garden shed. Even from her bedroom window, she could make out the padlock her father had put on its door.

A chill settled over her skin and she pressed a hand to her abdomen. She was grateful for Mr. Maxwell's lighting choice because it had meant he couldn't see the three small circular scars that marred her tummy's skin.

Rachel went to her closet to grab an over-sized cardigan and shrugged into it, then made her way to the the garden. The shed taunted her, its padlock heavy and rusted and reminding her to stay out. Her father had put it there for good reason, after-all. Still, she took a tentative step, and then another. The grass, soggy and limp from recent rain squelched quietly beneath her feet. In a blink, the padlock's rust scraped against her fingertips and she brushed them across the keyhole.

"Maybe it's time," she whispered to herself.

"Time for what?"

Rachel's father's unexpected voice startled her and she snatched her hand back. She nearly fell when she spun around to face him.

"Father! I didn't realize you were still home."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing out here Rachel?" Anyone would have said he was suspicious of something, but Rachel could feel his fear. His crippling worry that he tried to hide behind leveled concern.

Rachel smiled, hoping to diffuse the anxious electricity that came off of him in waves. "I'm not allowed to take a walk in the garden anymore."

His lips thinned.

Okay, there's no joking out of this one. "I thought, maybe it's time I..."

"Darling! What are you two doing out here? And without a jacket!"

It took everything in Rachel to keep from rolling her eyes because she was still under her father's watchful gaze. "She's right, we should go back in." Rachel breezed passed her parents and went straight to her room. When she went to the window, she found her parents still standing where she left them, her mother gesturing wildly. From what she could tell, her father hadn't mentioned anything about the shed... anything at all really, because her mother had that annoyed look on her face that was specific to when she felt left out of the loop. It was the same look when she learned she was the last in her group of equally exasperating, bored housewife friends to be told something.