Violations and Wounds

Chapter 1

© copyright May 2014, xfabulisaa 

It was winter's eve. Melanna Walfield sat cross-legged on the two seater armchair in her single storey bungalow. She gazed out of the white pane window, her pupils concentrating on the leafless tree which held a tire for a swing. A heavy blanket of snow concealed the driveway, slowing down traffic as employees honked and yelled to move on, but it was useless.

The first snow was a day when all lies were forgiven, a day where empty promises forgotten, tragedies disregarded and deaths disdained. Melanna had lost a loved one seven years ago. On this day, she would try to forget, strive to dismiss the thought of the brutal scene that took place right before her eyes as her cries were muffled and her tears streaming down her face. She let out a blood-curdling cry when her brother's lifeless corpse was plopped into her arms, the blood and gore smearing on her trousers, matting her hair, as she kneeled on the wilted grass in the gloom. 

The thought of the murder would make Mella tear up. She devoted her life to her brother. He had saved her countless times from high school bullies, intentional punishments and abuse. They ran away to a homestead where a widow was more than delighted to take them in and to care for them. 

"Leon! Leon! It's time for your porridge!" the widow had called out to Mella's brother who was catching butterflies in the meadow where the cattle grazed. 

"Alright, mommy!" Leon replied, scurrying to the homestead as fast as his legs could carry him. Mella and Leon had addressed the widow as 'mommy' or 'mom' after receiving care and proper management. The widow, Patricia, felt no longer alone with the company of the two children in the house.

Patricia had played an important role in Mella's life. She would give advice on women's health as Mella grew. Patricia was Mella's motivator and teacher, guardian and caretaker. 

. . .

Mella admired her beauty in a venetian mirror that hung sturdily on the bathroom wall. The woman that stood in front of her was stunningly beautiful. The wavy auburn brown hair gave an affectionate touch to her oval face. Flat lips shaped her mouth, dainty eyebrows, pointy nose and round, coffee-coloured eyes perfected the look. She had on a peter pan collar blouse in maya blue, a pair of ripped denim jeans and velvet chukka boots that sustained the warmth of her feet. A gold chain necklace that drooped to her chest, a pair of ribbon ear studs and midi rings for accessories. 

The crackling fireplace drew her attention. She scooted into the living room, picked up the fire iron from its rack on the brick wall and tended to the fire. Sparks were emitted as she placed the poker back onto its holder. She squatted on the shiny hardwood floor, her back deriving heat from the blaze. The crackling sounds were so satisfying— she felt dozy as her eyelids fluttered to keep open. She curled into a ball on the carpet that was only few inches away from her, napping without disturbance as if she were a feline enjoying luxury. 

. . . 

Mella awakened few minutes after the roaring blaze extinguished. The heat was no longer present. It shook her awake; she was highly sensitive. The wood had been used up. It was quite peculiar, as she was certain she had stocked plenty of hard, dry oak into the grate. She felt a sudden dizziness as she stood up, leaning on the leather wing chair for extra support. She urged to the front entrance, needing fresh air. A wreath hung on the white paneled door as she staggered towards it. She seized the brass handle, and wrenched the door open. As she stood on the porch, a gust of icy wind blew across her face, sending shivers down her spine. 

The sky glowed a dark shade of lavender and azure. Dusk was falling rapidly, darkness was soon to come. She gripped the porch railing with her delicate fingers, the heels of her palms pressing firmly onto the polished wood, her wrists tightening as the translucent blue of her veins protruded slightly while she exerted her full weight on the banister. Staring effortlessly into the beautiful landscape, engaging into wild imaginations that were impossible to take place in life, she pictured canna lilies and lilacs blooming in the freezing climate, the traffic flowing swiftly on this exact moment, and her brother beside her, grown up, successful, healthy and good-looking with a new family.

She sniffed as the thought of her brother came into her mind. She stepped back from the banister and shook her head. No, Leon can't come back to life. This is stupid. Mella took Leon's death very critically— a word of him would send her off in tears, weeping for a week straight. She exhaled a puff of icy breath, and sighed as she turned to face the door.

With the flick of a switch, the pendant light that hung from the ceiling brightened, producing a radiant energy that lit up the porch. Mella strode into the house, slamming the door behind her, rattling in its frame. A thought occured to her as she added it to her to-do list: Town. I'm going to town tomorrow.