VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 108

[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]

I woke in my old bedroom.

I could tell before I even opened my eyes where I was.

It was the smell that did it — the sharp tang of ammonia and fake roses, and it reminded me how my dad once bought this weird bottle, thinking it was fabric softener. We couldn't get the smell out of the sheets for months. It was stubborn; like I was. But we eventually did. Yet here it was again — unwelcome, and still awful.

The incessant ticking of the old kitchen clock grated at the edges of my patience. It hung now, after Dad swore one morning that it was 'rushing him,' on the wall opposite my bed. I took it because I liked that it was red. It matched the nail polish stains on my desk.

My eyes dragged open to find the second hand frozen mid-tick, refusing to move.

Batteries must've died.

I slid out of bed and the floor creaked under my feet — sudden and splitting. I winced, because I usually remembered not to step on that board. There was a thin line of uneven wood there, that groaned when you pressed on it. I hated noise in the morning.

Standing just outside my bedroom doorway, I paused and looked left and right down the photo-lined hall. Muted light through uncovered windows cast long shadows across the plaster walls, and everything was quiet. No one stirred in the house. It was left waiting and empty; an absolute silence that I could tell meant no one was here at all, not just sleeping in. Because there's a difference between a full-quiet house and an actually empty one. It rings. And you can hear things you usually don't, like the birds outside, or your joints clicking as you walk.

The pull of hunger nudged me downstairs, and I padded bare-footed to the kitchen. It was left cluttered, mid-chaos, like the abandoned aftermath of a party, or a fight, or both. The stove was littered with pans, some stacked, some scattered, with the scorched remnants of something tomato-based crusted around the edges. A melted pat of butter had softened into the countertop, and plates sat on the table, some rinsed, while others weren't. Nobody had loaded the dishwasher, nobody had left hungry.

I reached for the light switch, but no lights came on. I tried again, flicking up and down and up and down, but still, nothing. But that wasn't right. Because Dad had rewired the whole kitchen after I moved out — upgraded the fixtures, redid the panels. I remember him bragging about the dimmers.

The fridge was more difficult to open than I remember; it came with a low rubbery suction-pop, and a wash of stale, cold air hitting my face. The shelves were a sad collection of half-used jars of mystery chutney, bruised vegetables and forgotten condiments. A carton of milk sat lopsided in the door rack — no date, no label — and in the crisper drawer, a bag of salad leaves had liquified around the edges, turning brown and spotty. The glow of the fridge light flickered once, and it made me blink.

Then I heard a bang; a dull thud from a different room of the house. I froze, fingers still around the fridge's handle, and glanced at the kitchen window. Outside, the trees bent under wind, their branches raking across the side of the house. I didn't close the fridge. I just stood there in the glow, because I had that feeling — the wrong kind. Like something was about to happen, and I'd already missed the start of it.

But then I felt him.

A slow, certain press of warmth behind me, the weight of arms sliding around my waist, and a chin settling on my shoulder. I turned my face slightly, cheek to cheek now, and I probably should've been more surprised to see him here.