Paradise

SIX

The first two years of my life were spent somewhere distant, somewhere far away from Rolling Hills and the sprawling greenery of Paradise, somewhere unknown and existed in my head in the form of tangible scents and faint words. Sometimes I tried to think about those years, tried to reach out and grab the smells of ivory, buttermilk, and fizzy ether leaves that made my nose scrunch up in protest. Sometimes I tried to grab the words as they appeared in the back of my mind, appearing for the briefest of moments only to disappear with the very thing that'd brought it on.

I reach for distant scents and words as I climb the wooden steps up to the beautiful, teal house, lights shining in the windows like a child running to greet a parent after a long day of work. I can smell buttermilk as I get to the door, the warm, friendly, inviting door that gloatingly shields the lie that lays behind it. The smell of buttermilk fills me up, up, up, and up until it transforms into nostalgia itself and for a moment, I almost feel like I have a past.

A past of ivory fragrance, 90s rock music, someone swaying to the radio, identical ash brown hair falling like a curtain over a face as the same set of hazel-and-green heterochromia as mine crinkle up into a smile. A past of buttermilk, hand drawn stars, inaudible cooing, goofy animations. A past of yelling, screaming, empty spaces, small spaces, white lines across a warm, wooden coffee table, and lullabies. Not the kind that were shown in the movies, soft and compelling, the kind of lullabies that made eyelids grow heavy with blissful slumber. The lullabies I remembered are the faint words in the back of my mind, scratchy and out of tune, sometimes somber and sometimes buoyant. Like sunrise peeking through thin curtains on a Summer morning or a blazing, unforgiving sun that burns bare skin and digs into flesh with startling urgency.

Elizabeth said I was given up. That someone that swayed to 90s rock music, baked with buttermilk, and sang lullabies had decided one of us wasn't up to par and handed me off. "Lucky, it's okay to come from a troubled home," She'd assured. "There are many kids like you out there and you know what, you're one of the lucky ones. Some kids never get rescued from troubled homes, let alone being lucky enough to have someone who can admit they can't take of their children. What matters is you're safe now, okay? Now have you taken your pills?"

I can't help but wonder what would that someone with ash brown hair and mismatched eyes think if they knew where I am now. Would they think I'm safe here in Paradise? Would they think The Wolf was taking much better care of me than they could have ever had? 

Or would they regret the decision to give me up in the first place?

I know I'll never know the answers to why. Why that someone gave me up. It's a question not many kids like me get to decipher and usually, it doesn't end very well. I know I'll never know the answers but the monsters rear their heads anyway, circling around me like a cat stalking a rodent.

Maybe the answer was directly in front of me. 'You're not even worth it,' The Orc had snarled and I realize that I'm bleeding from the wounds marred on my face, the Orc's deadly venom corrupting streams and veins until I can't think about the past anymore, the only years that didn't seem tainted. Not tainted by Paradise but tainted by the system, the only years of life I got to keep.

The Wolf is setting a fresh plate of cookies on the hickory wooden dining table when I enter the teal house, except they aren't chocolate chip, but creamy vanilla buttermilk; the culprit of nostalgia and the woes of sweet tooths.