Freaks

19 • confession

❝isn't it strange that we talk least about the things we think about most?❞
ｃｈａｒｌｅｓ ｌｉｎｄｂｅｒｇｈ

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: t h e n

ＴＨＥ house always felt too quiet whenever my parents were gone.

Usually, they were never gone long. Most times they'd be back by evening — that was why even after I started school, they often still dropped me off at the crèche at weekends; it meant I was less likely to know they were even gone. After the first few months, the idea of the crèche was finally taking off and so soon, Cole and I weren't the only kids. I could handle those days. I was never alone then.

The real agony came when they went on one of their impromptu 3 day long trips, which didn't happen very often (but happened often enough for me to dread them). They couldn't leave me in the crèche then. It was too short notice to get a trusted babysitter in. And our closest neighbour, Old Mrs Tilscher was still too old and too mean to take care of anyone other than herself.

That was often when Aunt Vicky would step in. My knight in shining leather jacket. But Aunt Vicky was a business student trying to juggle getting a master's with night school and three jobs and so couldn't come until day 2 of this particular 3 day trip.

And then that was when it felt quiet. Because though I was never truly alone in the Sparke Residence (the formal name for the stately mansion that had been in my father's family for generations) with the various maids and caretakers roaming the estate, none ever stayed long enough to care about the little blonde girl that no one ever saw.

My parents had only left a few hours ago, but to my six year old self, it felt like days.

To distract myself, I went to sit by the large window in my parents' room that faced the front of the property. And that's when I saw him.

Cole.

On his bike.

Riding up to the front door like he owned the place. Typical.

I was too happy to care. Leaping from the windowsill, I rushed all the way downstairs, arriving at the front door just as the butler, Henry was opening the door, allowing Cole in.

My eyes sparkled when they met his. Elated more than anything that he'd chosen today of all days for one of his surprise visits. But then a thought came to me, "How d'you get here?" I breathed in wonder.

"I rode on my bike," he replied, straight-faced.

I stared at him. Hard. He remained impassive at first, but then... the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're lying," I realised, scrunching my nose.

Figures. His house was nowhere near mine, after all. It would be impossible to ride. Even if he thought he was all grown up at seven, his mother would never allow that.

"Maybe," he admitted unabashedly, allowing a full on grin to form on his face. "Dad dropped me off at the gates. Then I rode to the front door."

"Hmph." I huffed. "I knew you were lying."

"Not at first," he taunted as he walked past me, deeper into the house.