Not Like The Others

Chapter 5

October 2008

I laced up my turquoise Converse high-tops with a double knot before starting out of my room and dashing into the living room. That was when I registered the yelling coming from the kitchen.

"You fuck around with prostitutes, Rich," she said, her normally delicate English accent-clad voice spitting venom. "It's only a matter of time before you're not the only disease in this house."

She began to walk away from him but he cornered her against the cabinets. She faltered slightly as she used her hands to ground her on the countertop, knocking over a glass of water.

Drip. Drip.

I squatted down and hid in the hallway, peeking around the wall, and made eye contact with her. Her grey-blue eyes widened slightly before returning her gaze on his face, careful not to betray my position, my heart pounded violently and I was sure he would hear it but he never did.

"You better start minding the way you speak to me," the man said. "I can only be patient for so long."

"Really, patient? That's interesting, how long have you had to be patient through my affairs and sexual deviances? That's what I thought." He looked at her stonily, and a lascivious smirk crept across his face. He cupped her cheek with his left hand and she winced before he slapped her with his right.

Her head jerked to the side and she stayed like that for a moment before slowly turning toward him once more, her face expressionless.

He began to shake his head before turning and starting to walk out of the kitchen. He halted slightly and turned just barely toward her.

"Don't kid yourself, Beffany," my father said. "You're still a goddamn whore." Then, he walked out the front door.

Her jaw clenched and tears began to well in my eyes, and I focused on the water still dripping from the surface of the counter down to the beige tile floor.

--

"Emily." Janne's voice said.

I had tunnel vision. My eyes were trained on the kitchen faucet, which had been continuously leaking water.

Drip.

"Emily," a male voice this time, and I felt someone stroke my shoulder blade and registered the touch as belonging to Sylass, who was also the speaker.

I gasped and jarred before turning to him. He looked worried. I flinched his hand from my shoulder blade before allowing my eyes to flit around the room to see if anyone noticed, but it didn't appear that way.

I returned my attention to Sylass who was still looking at me, this time with hurt and confusion.

We all finished our breakfast in silence.

The rest of the week went by without major issue, but an awkward air set in, and I would honestly attribute it to my emotional and physical distance from Sylass. It would seem that everything that had occurred the previous weekend from our late-night meetup in the grass to the comfort of sleeping in his arms, to our adventure-filled getaway had gone out the window, and I am the one to blame, I know this. I just had time to reconsider and collect myself from drifting from the conscious thought that is always on my mind: no attachments. Still, I knew this wasn't fair to him, this back and forth kind of toying with his emotions and even physical desires, so I had decided to nip everything at the bud.

As I sat in my room this Sunday night, the eve of the first day of my first week of classes at University, the cool autumnal breeze flowing in through my open window, I had the desire to feel. So I decided to feel in the foolish, weak way I know how to.