HUSH

Chapter Four

     Sugar scented pancakes and sausages engross the air in fumes.

     I hate pancakes and I hate meat.

   I drive square bits of cereal from one side of my bowl to the other. The rythum of the spoon crashing against the glass bowl a solace lull to my bitter thoughts. The silver wear is frigid and I've begun to lose the touch in my fingers, but I hardly care.

      If I didn't hate almost everything though, I'd have to confess Don isn't that bad a cook. Infact he's astonishingly profesional at it. Funny thing is he never gets fat. Standing at the stove still in pajamas his glasses ease off his nose; a loose shirt falling to his thighs above baggy boxer shorts.

     "Anyone get the mail this morning?" Jake shouts from the stairs.

     "No!" I call out. "Can you get it?"

I sit at the table across from Kelsey. Her hair a golden sheen cascading down the bridge of her neck. Blue eyes glazed over in a fleeting daze. Only twelve and she's already looking like a barbie doll. I thrash my spoon stringently harder as she scrapes at her empty plate with a fork. Ihe noise is practically driving me up against the wall. I open my mouth to yell at her but Don beats me to it.

     "Kel, stop it." He places his hand on her shoulder for just a second, without even raising his voice before he returns to cooking. Don, "The Man of Silence." I smile to myself. Jake came up with that one.

         Quiet and calm, it's true, but a man of many words, without having to say a word. I liked that about him.

        Jake jogs in wearing boxers and a fitted tank that outlines the scuplture of his body. His high tops squeaking on the kitchen floor. "You've got legs, right?" He turns after getting a glass of OJ and locks his eyes casually with mine. 

     "Um . . . do you not see me eating?" I point to my half eaten bowl of cereal.

     Jake grabs an apple off of the fruit basket and bites into it. "Yeah?" he smirks after swallowing. "Me too."

     I sigh and try to blow a lock of hair from my face in frustration and fail as it spills back, knotting around my lips and eyelashes.

      "Really?" I mumble irritated, shoving it back it back into place I look at Jake, snickering with his hand clasped over his lips to keep from spitting out anything in his mouth. I finish up quick and walk over to the sink to clean up, elbowing him on the way. "Shuttup." I grin.

      In the doorway, I frown. It's raining out and I straightened my hair this morning. I grab a hoodie and thrust it over my shoulders, harboring as much of my hair as possible. I don't bother zipping up my sweater as i sprint to the mailbox, the ground lustering an emerald hue my heels glide over in desperate pursuit. Rain streaming down my lips I reach the mailbox and snatch half soaked letters from the frosted silver shelter they thrashed inside, the wind battling white sheets against another. I turn on my toes and a horde of liquid arrows immediatly thrust against me, pericing my skin and weaving though the openings in my clothes as a car passes by.

        "Asshole!" I scream.

        I threw myself back inside and spit dirt from my mouth.

     "What's happened to you?" I look up and see Max, my ten year old, fourth obnoxious foster sibling. He looks like a peach with hot sauce on top, sprinkled over with cinnamon. He points to the stack of envelopes in my hand. "Is there anything for me in there?"

     While flicking through the mail a plain white envelope slips through my fingers and falls. It's addressed "To Isabelle Blake", but it doesn't say who from, or where. I bite my lip. "No Freckle Face, nothing for you today."

     I rush up the stairs to my room, keeping my eyes steady on the print. Inside my room I lock the door and callaspe onto my bed sheets. The frabic still smells fresh; I let it's cool air course through my viens. I shut my eyes. The simple text on the front was enough to peak my couriosity, to make my palms sweat and my heart beat accelerate. In a desperate rage, I rip the envelope open. I keep thinking to myself that the ink still smells fresh as my hands spasm violenty. Think of something else, I tell myself, breathing heavy. It's not what you think.

     It reads:

     My Dearest Isabelle,

     My play is really quite simple. I tell you what to do, you will do as I say. You do not question me and you will obey. As long as you remain my beautiful and loyal actress, you will be safe. He will be safe. Of course, to understand your part in my play, you need instructions, but you only get these once. I do hope your brighter than I  imagined.

To carve the dagger fom your chest,

Find another that cuts best,

To find the weapon of sharpest intent,

Seek the rose whose thorns defy death.

     Remember, good actors always know their lines.

     This is your first act. You have a week.

     Wrong. It is what I think. What does it even mean? It wasn't signed either, or was it? There were three red blotches along the bottom corner and I gagged. It couldn't be blood . . . not real blood.

     More importantly it couldn't be Jamie's.