Red.

9

Nathan's POV

I haven't slept in what feels like years. 

Marietta has been consuming every thought I have since the day I met her. At first she was a welcome distraction; she was like the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. But then I noticed the light was tainted, it was fading ever so slowly with every passing day. It was like ever since that video was put on YouTube she turned into a completely different person. She's skittish, and wraps her arms around herself whenever possible as if using them as a shield. It piqued my curiosity, I wanted to know what could make a girl like her coward the way she does and then I wanted to eliminate it. Because the light I've seen doesn't deserve to be snuffed out. 

I watched as her car streaked out of the parking lot, leaving me standing there alone; dejected. The autumn wind sliced through my thin shirt and stung the strained skin on my face but I ignored it as I watched her turn onto the street. It was like I couldn't focus on anything else when she was in the vicinity; like a moth to a flame. I was beginning to think if I got any closer she'd turn me and that'd be the end. But I couldn't help but feel like that's where I belong. 

Sighing, I hiked my backpack further up on my shoulder and headed for my truck. It was old and fading, the red paint looked more like pink by now. She was rusting, and the noises she made were concerning but she was reliable and she's carried me everywhere since I could drive. I patted the steering wheel as I got in, settling my bag on the bench seat and resting my head on the wheel. "Time to go back there," I whispered regretfully, as if the truck could hear my words and it'd be disappointed to hear the news. "I know you don't want to as much I don't, but we gotta." I gave the wheel one last pat before turning the key and putting it in gear. 

Driving was always something that cleared my head. The constant drone of the engine, the mindless ease that comes with driving on a well known route. It was like I didn't even have to think about what I was doing. Before I know it the drive is over and I've pulled up to a three story red house with chipped paint and a broken window that still had yet to be fixed. I stared in anger at the piece of cardboard haphazardly taped against the gaping hole, my dads way of "fixing" a problem: Cover it up. 

I slowly got out and lugged my backpack with me, taking as long as I could before I actually had to go inside. Inside was cold. Inside there was yelling, and screaming and crying. Inside was fear and anguish and despair. Inside was nothing but a dark pit of Hell that I had to live in everyday. I took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping inside. 

My mom was in the kitchen, bustling around trying to get dinner done as fast as possible. my eyebrows furrowed as I glanced at the clock on the stove as I entered. It was only three o'clock, dad wouldn't be home for another two hours. Why was she in such a hurry. 

She doesn't notice me come in, or she notices but just doesn't acknowledge. That's probably right, after living with my dad for twenty odd years she's come to learn to always be on her guard. I give her a kiss on the cheek as she passes me on her way to the oven, putting a pan of lasagna inside. She looks tired, her hair was pulled back messily and carelessly into a ponytail, and the bags under her eyes were darker than normal. Upon closer inspection, I realized those weren't bags; they were black eyes. 

She avoided looking at me as she continued to run around the kitchen, muttering to herself as she prepared dinner as fast as she could. The frustration was building inside me and I couldn't help but let it loose when I saw her sleeve run up and the red marks around her wrist like a hand had been there. I blocked her path to the sink and gently laid my hands on her shoulders.