Temper (Taboo Book 1)

38- Hull

The darkness was intimidating against the tiny drop of light from our car. Trees zoomed past into the black as Anya drove along the highway and I struggled to hide the climbing fear.

She repeatedly glanced in my direction. Her own anxiety made her pale enough to glow in the dark. "I haven't told you this, but I wanted to come with you for ulterior reasons."

"Dimitri hinted at that. Plus, you're not difficult to read." I recalled whiteness of her face when I first mentioned my need to go to Memphis.

She tried to smile but her lips wouldn't obey. "My mother disappeared in her own way after my sister died. My step-father is still missing, running from what he's done." I waited for her to continue as she stared out into the street. "He's been hiding in Memphis."

I knew she'd eventually tell me about the loose ends she needed to tie. I didn't know how much good we could do against a man- a tangible being. My battle was an inner one against ghosts and history. "Can you find him?"

Her eyes flashed to mine. Beneath the fear was a hard determination I couldn't help but respect. "I have a lead. It might fall through but there's no harm in trying."

We drove through the early morning until the sun shimmered against the mist above the city. We drove past hospitals, government buildings, and a strange, shining pyramid along the river.

Anya followed the directions of the GPS. She drove slowly through the neighborhood streets lined with more broken buildings the further we went. As we turned onto a hole-filled street with no outlet my hands began to knot.

Many of the houses were empty and a few looked as though they had burned. A mother led her two children from their home with chipped green paint as they pulled backpacks over thin winter coats.

Anya's eyes were glued to the end of the street. I braved a glance.

There was a lot filled with dirt, worn by tires over years. To the right sat a white house, the most pristine on the street. The fresh paint and ornately carved wooden door seemed out of place. Across from it was the home that bore nightmares.

Anya turned in the empty lot and pulled to the side of the street. We stared in silence as her hand reached out to touch mine and grant me strength.  

"You don't have to go in," she whispered. Numbness began filling my mind. I opened the door to the lavish vehicle and pulled myself from the soft leather seat.

The car itself seemed to belong to a different world. I knew I did. I had grown up so differently. I had never witnessed such poverty. Through the bare supports of one of the decrepit houses, I watched a man stand from the floor with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

I yearned to help him but didn't know if he would accept it. I hated the anxiety of offending him. I turned back towards the house to examine the broken, rusted iron fence and the sagging wooden steps.

I tried to hide the timidity in my bones as I ventured into the yard. Anya followed with quiet feet. I felt her searching the house in her own way but kept her hands in her pockets. I tested my weight on a step before climbing the porch and knocking.

Anya expected the house to be empty. She nudged me to the side with a card in her hand. I covered a nervous, paranoid laugh as she twisted the locked knob and shimmied the door open.

I looked down, noticing the stained wood of the porch. Heavy drops were faded and yellowed but obviously remnants of blood. I stepped back, feeling as though I was standing on sacred ground but the wrong kind.

The door swung in and my eyes adjusted to the dim space of the room. Anya stood back, allowing me to plunge us both into the darkness that once consumed my mother.

My heart thundered so hard I could feel it in my head. I followed the trail of old, bleached blood into the house. I faltered as I stared at the tangible memory of carnage. The stench of dust and stale smoke made my stomach turn. The stains across the floor made me gag.

I couldn't imagine one person having held so much blood. It was everywhere. I took in the ceiling spotted with the same, making me imagine Ruth writhing, screaming, and flinging herself. Her life was a tragedy and all that remained of her were stains.

I noticed the large, rectangular area of clean wood as though there once was a thick rug or even a bed against the window. I stepped towards the floral couch, noticing the splatter.

Ruth emptied herself back home. I witnessed the saturation of the room yet walked into the new trap of horror willingly. There was nowhere in the room I could turn to in escape.

A wall was cracked in a strange oval pattern, the shape of a large person. I assumed the monster had hurt others in the house.

The fear and my imagination twisted until I grew dizzy but I kept searching. There was an answer somewhere though I didn't know the question. I couldn't give up.

I walked through the short hall. The kitchen counters gleamed but the appliances were dusty as though no one had cooked in there for years. At the end of the hall was a small bathroom. It was clean but for the overflowing ashtray on the porcelain sink.

I backed away, realizing the partial cleanliness was meaningful and the scent of cigarettes too fresh.

I spun back to Anya lingering in the living room, her eyes glued to the ceiling as though she could feel the devastation of whoever had spilled their life and writhed in pain.

Anxiety made the blood pump deafeningly in my ears until my eyes caught the collection pictures gleaming on the wall in the hallway. Their glass held no fingerprints or a speck of dust.

I stepped closer as one, in particular, caught my attention.

My teeth clenched painfully as I scrutinized his wide grin, full lips, and dark eyes against long lashes. I glared at William, the handsome creature of devastation. I noticed his chipped tooth and the benevolence in his eyes for whoever snapped the picture.

The glass splintered into my knuckles before I realized I lifted my hand. A scream of rage ripped through my throat as I lifted the fake golden frame from the wall, tearing the nail through the plaster. I flung his picture against the floor and slammed my sneaker into it until the shredded photograph was everywhere. His teeth, lips, eyes, and the glass all scattered.

I leaned against the wall, trying to block my despair. The rage refused to simmer as Ruth's pale blue eyes clashed with mine from the wall.

Her young smile was pristine. Her hair captured the orange of the flash to make her look as though she wore a fiery halo.

I slumped and slid as I stared at the picture of Ruth. She looked so happy with the beast's lips pressed to her cheek.

I recognized the background to be a mural on a river wall. Ruth often took me as a child to sit in the parking lot. We would watch the sun lower against the paintings and shimmer on the water beyond the wall. Even my best memories were tainted by him.