The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 21

Jake and I freeze at the sound which slices through the air better than butter. "I thought you were alone, Scout." My father knowingly pronounces the sentence slowly on purpose, stressing the fault in her cover up. "Michelle?"

That's it, I'm done for.

"Goddamn it, Jake! I told you not to break anything." She plays it off naturally but my palms continue to sweat as Jake gives me a blank stare clearly at a loss. 'Go.' I mouth, signalling a shoo motion.

I flush the toilet to mask what I say, "Please just play along, I'm sorry about this."

"It's ok." I almost believe him, squatting in the furthest corner deadly silent and still whilst Jake turns on the tap for a few seconds then leaves the bathroom. "Sorry, looks like you'll need a new—" He speech comes out fast but naturally.

I imagine he fakes not noticing my parents presence till now by doing a double take or something that suggested he is caught off guard.

Inwardly I applaud him for this consideration. "Oh, company... guess I'll be on my way then." His voice is steady but a hint of hurt is registered in the decreasing emotions ranging from enlightened to closed off.

Thank you, Jake

"No, don't let us impose, we were just inquiring about someone." Father's defeated sigh is satisfying to hear and I smirk to myself despite the situation.  He probably wipes his black rimmed glasses after speaking, a common action he did when he was unsure what to do next. 

I don't miss his calculating habits, or my mothers, they are too predictable for comfort, "We apologize for any inconvenience, Scout. We pray that you'll make the right choice." She said disdainfully, in such a way it resembles, "Die in hell."

Jake mumbles an inaudible word, I can feel my parents judgmental eyes on his vanishing frame. The clicks of mother's heels on the pavement fade into nothing by the time Scout's heaved the heavy door shut, leaning on the peeling paint job.

"Coast is clear, Tris." She calls exasperated after several, breathless minutes leaving me to my consuming inner thoughts.

I enter the immediate lounge room, Scout rests six long —by my short legged standards— strides away, forefinger and thumb pinching her nose bridge. "That's gotta be the fastest remedy to a hangover I've ever experienced and trust me, I've had my fair share of them."

I wish last night --which lasted well into five am this morning-- never ended. Careless. Drinking. Laughing. It was heaven.

Now I might as well be living in fear of my own shadow. "You'd think six states separating us would be enough to throw them off, right?" I did but as always, I underestimate the lengths they'll go to in order to contain the domestic abuse that occurred in our household.

If word got out about the state our chaotic family was in, they'd be ostracized by the Mormon community and for their brainwashed minds, that means more to them than the welfare of their suffering children. "You ok?" Scout asks sympathetic to the circumstances.

"I gotta break something." Unsure where or how but the urge to smash something to smithereens is the most appealing thing I can do this instant.

We survey the apartment, nominating the loose tiles from the couplings of pale green splash back in the kitchen. "It's as good a choice as any." I dive into the cabinets hovering over the sink above the tiled feature, searching the section where we keep our tools and retrieving a two rusted hammers.

"Hell, I'll join ya." Together we yank a handful of the ceramic squares off the cream gib rock. "Tile one for ma," I place the item flat on the carpet, a hands width apart from the second. "Tile two for dad."

Scout copies the same setup with an extra tile. Representing her uncle who was responsible for the propaganda planted inside her parents minds causing their conversion to Mormon religion and leading to their inevitable death.

She never explained the issue in its entirety and I respect her decision, it took two years into our friendship before I came clean about the disturbing acts of violence committed in my home. "After you, Michelle."

The use of my first name grounds me somehow, reminding me of the parts in my life I wish didn't exist, picturing those imperfections on the glossy finish, reflecting my resentful expression.

Lifting the hammer overhead I slam the blunt face dead center of the sickly colour. It's instantly relieving.  Scout imitates the movement using two hands almost obliterating the tile on the first strike.

I pound it harder, smashing the smaller fragments into tinier shards until they are mini white-ish shavings embedded in the carpet.

We both finish the other tiles then remove majority of what remains on our outdated kitchen wall. Getting creative with the strike angle. Incorporating the claw and handle to destroy the stubborn pieces. Every method possible is attempted.

Forty pairs of broken down tiles clutter the carpet in noticeable white specks after an eternity of therapeutic swinging.

Scout leans beside the TV on the wall facing me, leaning my elbows on sore kneecaps. "We should make this a weekly thing." I suggest, leaning my head against the counter supporting my curved spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It beats therapy, it's free and we can remodel as we go." Although we're glistening in our own sweat and struggling to catch our breath, a mutually weak smirk is enough to divert our exhaustion into humour.