With Crayons and Love (Romantic Suspense) [COMPLETED]

Chapter 2 - Unpredictable

I was taking a walk down a scenic trail in a park near my place, shaded sparsely by the thick canopy of oak trees overhead. The top of my head was hot and there was a caramel apple in my hand, half finished. I was getting a stomach ache. It had been my second since I started walking.

Chicago seemed to be smiling. The sun was high above the city and seeking to melt everything in its path. There were no clouds to provide periodical shade, and June was commencing with a grand entrance. A big bang.

A horrible punch in the face.

More than a day had passed since my mother had punched me in the face with her plea; with her reasoning and expert tugging of my emotions. I had a serious defect. I often cared too much for other people, and often, I would hide it fairly well.

But not with Rianne O'Brien, no. She could see perfectly through my moods, my disguises and facades. My I don't cares.

How could I not care about a fostered child, who was family, and needing of a home? A home that my mother wished was my own. Only temporarily.

Children ate. They peed and pooped and puked and cried. They required constant attention and warmth. It had to be strenuous as hell to keep another human alive when you barely knew how to do so yourself.

My life was every bit as mercurial as I was, and I often became so immersed into my art and work that sometimes a day would go by in which I forgot to eat. Then I would crash from the excess of coffee and binge on cheese, yoga my way into zen before I went to bed.

Hardly healthy, but it was friggin' phenomenal. I followed no book. From Friday to Sunday I stroked my imagination and let it run free until I became sick. And Monday through Thursday, for only six hours from nine to three, I worked at the Chicago Tribune. Pure journalism, spent gathering information, writing and organizing. Delight. After work I was free to go anywhere, do whatever, and nothing ever restrained me.

A five year old girl would certainly restrain me with her pee and puke. No doubt.

But I couldn't say no. I had time and opportunity in my hands. Time that I could use to help her, even if only for a little while as my aunt and mother found her a permanent home.

I let out a cynical laugh, and a jogger glanced back at me with a face. I made one back; a mean one.

My mother knew I would not have been able to refuse outright. To be completely selfish and self-preservative for once in my life. Five year olds were dangerous beings, little time bombs of illness and wreckage.

I needed patience, something I had been given only a limited supply of. Hell, I was practically allergic to ringing noises. They stroked my demons. And I could never hold in my curses and utterances when people refused to commute to and fro properly. My poor toaster oven could justifiably file a restraint against me because of all the times I had beat it up when it burnt my toast. I had justifiable enough reason to get angry; forty seconds had not yet been converted to forty minutes on the time measurement scale.

I couldn't even get through the day without some yoga to calm my easily frustrated composure.

Predictability. That was something else most caretakers often had. They would do this, then that, and then that other thing. I, on the other hand, was as predictable as a tornado.

Right then and there, walking on my own, I became angry with myself. All the time I had spent "thinking about it" really was done only out of obligation to my sense of self importance. There really was nothing to think about when you were Tessa, me, and had to help someone. It always came down to the same, predictable outcome. And that was the only time when I was predictable. It irritated the crap out of me.

My "thinking" had solely served to stall the inevitable decision I would make. Bad to worse, I had been subconsciously aware of the decision the entire time.

I threw the apple at a nearby tree in a fit of rage. Then I ran to pick it up and dump it out.

I wanted to cry. And I did; I started to bawl. At the street I hailed a cab, told the driver to take me home. Not a block had passed when he seemed to draw the conclusion that I was suicidal or destructive. He seemed scared for his life.

"I'm not crazy," I said, my voice croaky. His eyes flickered to and fro the overhead mirror, making contact with mine. Poor man, he seemed so uncomfortable.

He was so bewildered that I couldn't help but to try to clarify myself, even though my frequent hiccups probably made me incoherent. "I'm-" hiccup, "unpredictable and dangerous-" hiccup.

The man's face transformed, eyes wide as bullets and mouth set in a wiggly crevice of horror.

"No!" I shouted.

He almost stopped the cab, shaking.

"I mean, no. Not the way you think-" hiccup. "I'm unpredictable because I'm all over the place. I never even glance at watches. And I'm dangerous because-" hiccup, "I can't even cook steak without setting off the fire alarm. Yet my mother wants me to take care of a five year old kid for months-" hiccup. "That's a lot of friggin' time! It seriously makes me want to kill myself," hiccup.

The driver's face contorted yet again, and I threw my hands up defensively. "But I won't. I won't."

He said, "Okay, miss."

That was it?

"How inspirational," I muttered. What had I been expecting? A Ghandi speech?

He pulled up in front of my building. I paid the fare and stepped out, feeling like an idiot. I had just finished crying out my troubles to a public taxi driver.

Nice one, Tessa. That deserved a good pat on the back.

I was instantly calmed when I entered my apartment. It had been designed as a natural oasis, a soothing place where I could work and play. The warm browns and grays of the stoned walls created a vivid, beautiful contrast against the oranges and greens of my furniture. I had designed it like a sort of stone cave, but with abundant light, and lovely comfortable furniture in both of my favorite colors.

The living room and studio, the latter being connected to my bedroom, were my two favorite rooms in the whole apartment. And it was a large apartment indeed. With a stainless steel kitchen, spacious studio, living room, master bed and bath, and a guest room as well as a guest bath, you could say I had room. Room enough to comfortably house an additional half-sized person.

With a sigh, I dressed into yoga clothes, slipped in my favorite disk. Another State of Being Through Yoga.

A downward dog, a child's pose, and a therapeutic warrior later, I was myself again. The natural music stroked my inner goddess, and the male instructor's deep, soothing voice had me picturing him in the nude.

He was sexy. It was a nice picture.

I was done an hour later, sated and calm. I started to hope the drugging effect of yoga hadn't affected my decision making skills, because I had, indeed, made a decision.

With my mind made, I crossed to my satchel and headed out. There was no use in changing clothing if I was only to go see my mother.

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Hey, lovelies! I hope you're doing great! It's summer now, fortunately. So smile.

Song to the right, as well as Rianne. I really hope you like this new story. Let me know of your thoughts. Thanks for reading :D