As I sat beside Lesly in the car, I stayed away like she wanted, not speaking to her. The agitation had never gone away, especially prominent if I was that close to her. However, this feeling hadn't had the power to let me distance myself for real, on the contrary.
When I was with my stepmother, I felt a pull. My position, which had been miles away, making the binoculars necessary to witness everything that should happen right before my eyes, would be changed as she pulled me closer, and I don't know why that was the case.
I explored this strange occurrence, asking myself if my father had felt the same, destroying my mother because of this kind of 'pull', and getting Lesly in his bed for the same reason as well.
When we arrived, I was in thoughts. Turning my head, I noticed that Lesly was zoning out as well. The same situation occurred for the second time today. The same agitation drove me to come closer to her yet again.
I had noticed that my voice seemed to have an impact on her, and when she didn't step out of the car, thinking about something, I had wanted to test my theory, and spoke directly in her ear. It confirmed my suspicion while at the same time, sadly, ending her hurting herself.
This time, I put my arm around her, shielding her from her own instinctive body reaction. And luckily, I did so.
I noticed as well that after I spoke again, the air stagnated and the blue in her eyes pulled me, pulling me even closer—the miles of distance that brought about this bloody detachment, were lessened, bringing me back to life.
What would happen if I crossed the distance to the fullest? Would I suddenly wake up, the gruesome childhood and insane parents having been nothing more than a nightmare? I was curious—so damn curious about what would happen if she pulled me back into my body, de-purposing the binoculars and distance—what would happen to me?
When the door on her side opened, I was back in the distance again. The moment was destroyed, and I felt as if suffering from a backlash, being thrown back to where I initially stood.
As I exited the car and made my way into my room, I felt drained. Sitting on the window sill, I smoked a cigarette.
Taking a drag, I looked at the garden, and when I had smoked enough, I went for my guitar again, playing some melody, waiting for dinner time to finally arrive.
When it was time, and I walked into the dining room, only my father was seated already, no Lesly in sight.
"Is she teaching your class as well?" My father uncharacteristically asked something other than about my achievements.
"She is." I answered; he could easily find out if I lied anyway.
He nodded lightly; the conversation was surprisingly not over.
"Is she a good teacher?"
I stared at the table, tapping its surface in an attempt to press down my meanwhile all-present agitation. The fact that he wanted to know something about the substitute was a bad sign. He should be content with her as a stand-in, but if he started to take an interest in Lesly personally – it would be a problematic outcome.
"She is." I repeated when my father's light eyes mustered me dangerously, unsatisfied with how long it took me to answer.
He leaned back a bit,
"Maybe I will visit her at work sometime." His eyes flitted to the red roses on the table.
My tapping stopped, and I clenched the hand in my Jeans pocket.
Lesly came and sat before me. My father's eyes changed when he saw his mark covered. It was a mistake on my part, I should have told her to only wear it to school, I should know the best how my father was.
Damn. Thinking that the situation could be salvaged if she heeded his command, I was stunned by her refusal.
I looked at the set table, tapping it again, waiting for him to snap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her flinch. My tapping accelerated, but I made sure to make no hearable sounds.
Concentrating on my action, I couldn't help myself and eventually looked at her. The hand in my jeans pocket reached for the lighter when I saw her removing the plaster that I put on her personally and with my own hands.
I desperately wanted to hear the sound of my lighter opening and closing, but it would escalate the situation, so I just clutched it with all my strength.
She never looked up again, and while I forced down the food, I wanted to suddenly touch her, not liking that she displayed the same submission for my father that my mother had shown on a daily basis.
Opting on the only possibility of contacting her away from my father's eyes, I reached for her foot with mine. Neither did she react, which would have gotten me discovered and resulted in a bloodbath or a burned-down house, nor did she look up. The latter part brought my agitation to a new peak yet again.
Her husband called her away from the dinner, away from me, and I tried to prolong the touch like I did in the morning, but again, I couldn't.
When they were gone, I went to the garden, to the back of the house, sat under their window. I played with my lighter, letting the lid spring up and down, calming myself.
Up
One of the windows was open, and although I wouldn't tell what they did inside, a scream – I would certainly hear.
Down
There was absolute silence. No yelling, no beating.
Up
This should further reassure me.
Down
But it did not.
Up
If he hurt her, if he gave me a reason, then things could end here, end today.
Down
Because then, it would just be self-defence.
Up