SUMMER FEVER

12 | THEN

YVES LUKACS
13 years ago

The air felt thick with tension as I walked through the dimly lit hallway of the house, the sound of my own footsteps echoing eerily against the walls. My aunt's laughter rang out from the kitchen, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness.

As I sat at the table, the familiar scent of my aunt's perfume lingered in the air, intertwining with the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafting from the oven. As I sat, the sunlight filtering through the curtains painted patterns on the floor, but there was a tension in the air that I couldn't quite shake.

Her smile seemed strained, her eyes holding a depth of emotion I couldn't quite decipher. Something in the way she moved, the way she spoke, sent a ripple of discomfort through me, like a subtle warning that went unheeded.

As the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room, I found myself growing increasingly restless. My aunt's presence seemed to loom larger, suffocating me with its weight, her every movement calculated and deliberate.

I excused myself from the room, seeking solace in the familiarity of my own thoughts. But even in the sanctuary of my own mind, I couldn't escape the lingering sense of unease that clung to me like a second skin.

And as the evening wore on, the tension in the air became palpable, like a storm brewing on the horizon, waiting to unleash its fury. Little did I know, that the calm facade would soon crack, revealing the darkness that lay hidden beneath.

The old bookshelf in the corner beckoned to me, its shelves lined with stories waiting to be discovered. I needed an escape. Summer had said that when the impressions and stimuli get too much, the best way to flee it is to enter another world.

I buried myself in the pages of a well-worn novel, letting the words transport me to distant lands. But even as I lost myself in the world of fiction, a nagging sense of unease persisted, like a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of my consciousness.

With a sense of urgency tinged with relief, I reached for "Pride and Prejudice" from the shelf, its familiar spine a comforting presence in my trembling hands. Clutching the book tightly to my chest, I made a swift exit from the Lukacs mansion, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere that threatened to consume me whole.

The cool night air greeted me as I stepped outside, a welcome respite from the oppressive heat of the house. I breathed deeply, letting the crisp breeze wash over me, cleansing away the lingering traces of discomfort and fear. As I walked away from the Lukacs mansion, each step felt like a release, a breaking free from the invisible chains that had bound me to that place.

As I walked further from the manor, the weight of the book in my hands felt more like a burden than a comfort. With each step, I realized that escaping into fiction offered only momentary reprieve from the harsh realities of life. The darkness of the night seemed to mirror the darkness within me, a reminder of the raw reality that I could no longer ignore. Perhaps, I thought, what I truly craved was not the gentle escapism of literature, but rather the unfiltered truth of the world around me.

The sound of the door creaking open behind me shattered the silence of the night, sending a jolt of apprehension through my veins. I turned to see my aunt standing in the doorway, her silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of the foyer lights.

"Where are you heading, darling?"

Her voice, though gentle, held a note of concern as she asked me.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. But then, summoning all the courage I could muster, I met her gaze with unwavering determination.

Get a life, I wanted to say. But it came out as: "I need some fresh air. Maybe I'll crash at Lamprecht's."