The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 28

"One—"—Dianna started to protest.

"I said one hour, dammit," Mr. Huston hollered, slamming his hand on the table. "That's final. You're lucky I'm letting you down here to eat after all you've done."

Dianna stared back at her father with cold eyes as he disappeared behind his newspaper.

"It's a shame," Mr. Huston said from behind the paper. "They still haven't found Lucas yet. Article here says investigators have got no leads. Damn troublemaker like that, who knows what he's got himself into. Run off to join a gang or something. Real ingrate. What can you expect, coming from a broken home...those types of people, they amount to nothing. Bad for society. I say good riddance."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Mrs. Huston said. "What if it was Mitch or Dianna missing?"

Mr. Huston took a sip of coffee, rolling his eyes. "My kids don't get in trouble—well, at least Mitch has got sense to steer clear of trouble."

Dianna grew sick listening her father and pushed away her plate of food. She repressed the urge to snatch the newspaper from his hands and tear it to pieces. The rush of red to her face told Mitch that it was time to go. He gulped down the last of his juice, and followed like a trained dog.

Mrs. Huston dried her hands forcefully with the dish towel and tossed it in the sink, watching her kids dart off. She marched over to the table, and stood with her hands tightly crossed over her chest, glaring down at Mr. Huston. "You know you really shouldn't talk to her like that. Don't forget she's still your child."

Mr. Huston laid the newspaper on the table and began tapping his fingers in an erratic rhythm, his wife's remark providing an unusual sting. He looked up to her, the corners of his eyes quivering. "I know I've been tough," he said, clearing his throat, "I just want her to stay out of trouble and be safe."

~~~~~~~~~

Lucas opened his eyes slowly. The familiar sour odor graced his nose. Rotted ceiling and walls and the distinguished boarded living room windows came into focus. He dragged his fingers across the rough upholstery of the sofa in an effort to distract the urge to vomit which proved unsuccessful. He turned his head and started dry heaving. Qulin knelt by him and placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

"What happened?" Lucas asked, rubbing his eyes, detecting a minty smell coming from the cloth.

"You passed out," Qulin replied, softly, "there's peppermint in this compress. It'll soothe that nauseous feeling."

Lucas welcomed the delightful scent, as it began to alleviate the nausea. He sat up. Just beyond Qulin's bowed shoulders—the cat painting returned its frozen glare. The painting—back on the wall as if seeing the cat alive and stalking had been a hallucination.

"Don't be afraid," Qulin said warmly, settling next to him on the couch. He handed Lucas a cup of water and instructed him to sip. "It can only hurt me."

"I saw it," Lucas stammered, the cup shaking, water spilling over the lip of the cup. "It was walking. It was...so alive, hissing. So horrible. It doesn't make any sense. How?"

"You weren't supposed to see any of this," Qulin said, exhaling. "I asked Som to delay. But you have an uncanny talent of undermining my instructions."

Lucas forced himself to look at the menacing cat painting, its red eyes now stale and lifeless, no sharp claws unsheathed, scarcely harmful. He struggled to stand taking a moment to gather his bearings then crept towards the fireplace, eyes fixed on the painting. He reached the mantle, gently and cautiously ran his fingertips across the smooth inert painting.