I was smoking by the window, thinking about my stepmother and her pet.
Taking a drag, I watched my door being opened, my father coming inside.
His unreadable face was an open book for me. So I could see that he was elated about something, giving me a sinking feeling.
"You have been late again?" I was ready to roll my trouser legs up, but he shook his head.
"Go to school; that is the only thing I demand from you."
Why is seeing him this happy giving me such an unsettling feeling when I normally don't care at all? I nodded at him, and he left the room.
Hearing the maids murmuring, I lean against the open window and strained my ears. For a change, today I wanted to know what they talk about.
"Had she finally been disciplined?" Maid A giggled.
"Master was furious." Maid B answered.
What could she have done in the few hours since we parted ways? I was already looking forward to seeing if she would steal something at dinner, but now it seemed that something had happened. Disciplined....my messed up father wouldn't go as far as to use violence on the second day he brought the new wife in?
I snuffed the cigarette out after taking one long final drag. Then, with my hands in my jeans pockets, I made my way in the direction of my father's bedroom. Opening the door silently, I heard a shower running.
Sneaking in, I looked around and crouched on the floor. The cat was actually under the bed.
Going through the nightstands, I found nothing and went into the walk-in closet and looked through those brand-new clothes. Nothing of these should be her own clothes.
Opening the drawers, I halted when I saw one with clutter inside. Observing the pen, fork, and golden apple closer, as well as the plate I had witnessed her personally steal, I came to a conclusion.
The plate-incident had neither a special reason, nor was she stealing to enrich herself. The golden apple was only messing with a gold coating—probably not even real gold as well. As for the rest, the most expensive thing was most likely the little fork that she should have taken from yesterday's dinner, but there was no reason to keep everything in place, like storing something precious.
The shower stopped, and I went back in the bedroom, wanting to see if her body was unharmed.
When she stepped outside, she flinched lightly, seeing me. Clothed in casual clothes, her hair was still wet, appearing darker.
Her expression seemed more wary than it was before we parted.
Tilting my head, I let my gaze wander over her, and the moment she turned to the side, moving her head strangely, I knew she was hiding something.
I closed in and saw her take a step back, alarmed.
Just what had happened?
She was now against the door frame of the bathroom. I put my hands in my jeans to show her that I had no intention to touch her in any way. Bending forward, I came closer to her, our faces growing closer, and when we were only a few inches apart, I tilted to the side, looking at what she wanted to hide.
On her pale neck was something even more revolting than a scar. I saw the mark my father had left.
My eyes landed on her lips, not swollen. Breathing in her scent mixed with shampoo, I straightened up again.
Our eyes met for a long moment until I heard someone coming. Turning around, I left the bedroom, turned to the guestroom next door, opened the window and jumped in the garden. For the second time today.
I ran in the maid from this morning and stopped her,
"Why was my father angry?"
The maid smiled excitedly, apparently thinking I was relishing on my stepmother's demise.
"That woman tried to run away, coloring her hair dark to change her looks; she was already inside an airplane before she was found."
Ah. Smarter than I thought. So she wasn't led willingly to the scaffold, but wrapped herself in wool to hide her claws.
I wordlessly left the maid standing there and turned for the entrance of the villa again.
While waiting for dinner, I fiddled with my guitar.
To change her hair color was the wrong choice. My father would probably not go overboard just yet, but she was only here because of her looks, so naturally they had to be maintained.
When dinner time came at last, I strolled downstairs, curious if she would cover up the hickey and, if yes, in which way.
However, I was left disappointed; her seat remained empty.
"Your mother is resting."
I had to suppress a smirk. I bet he had let her stay in the room without dinner to repent.
Nodding, I ate what they brought; the food was not as good as yesterday, tasting rather bland.
When my father finished, I followed him up the stairs, and seeing that he went to the second floor where his office was, I went back to the kitchen before going back to my father's bedroom.
I opened the door and saw my stepmother laying on the bed like a lazy cat, staring into nothingness.
"Catch." The moment her eyes flitted to me, I threw a packed sandwich at her just before closing the door again, not stopping to see if she had caught it.
I returned to my room and waited for the night to come, finally doing my too-simple homework in order to make the time go by.
When it got late, I replayed every piece of information I had about her in my head. I have even looked at my timetable, and it appears like we have physical education only every two days. So, tomorrow there was none for our class.
I thought about her not feeling tired, but full of energy. When I looked at the clock, I noticed that it was way past midnight. Standing up, I went to my father's bedroom again.
There I saw both of them sleeping, my father holding her in the same manner he did yesterday, but at least his hand wasn't inside her shirt.
I crouched before the bed and reached for a strand of her hair. Fiddling with it in my fingers, I watched her sleep, a stark contrast to last night, when she woke up soon after I laid my eyes on her. She should be dead tired, probably not going back to sleep after I left yesterday.
I suddenly wanted her to open her eyes again, like she did yesterday.
To discover me.
To look at me.