by R Holmes
When it was time to choose the paint, I was standing in the middle of the aisle of the hardware store, browsing the rows of samples, and it stopped me in my tracks. I could immediately smell the salty sea, and feel the sand on my fingertips. I picked it up along with the other colors that incited happy memories. I am going to surround myself with everything that brought my joy, so there is no room for fear or worry or anxiousness. Little by little I will drive it out. Step by step. One foot in front of the other.
I would look back on these years and remember the strength it took instead of the overwhelming amount of sadness, hurt, and pain that came with it.
The colors on the wall stare back at me dauntingly, as if they have an opinion of their own. It was an important, life altering decision. Whichever color I picked would be the color that I had to see every day for the foreseeable future, and I wanted to make absolutely sure it was the right one. Even if it was just a can of latex paint, it was symbolic for my life in a lot of ways. If I had to guess I had been sitting here, staring at the wall, my eyes traveling over the same strips of paint over and over, for hours now. I was no closer in making my decision than I was when I started, but I was thankful for the quiet, uninterrupted silence of my new home.
Just as I'm about to begin getting ready for bed I hear a faint sound near the back door. It sounds almost like a wounded animal but it was so quiet I couldn't make it out. I walk over to the back door and listen for any hint of a noise, then I hear it again.
Mew.
Is that a cat?
I open the door and peer outside into the darkness. The forest surrounding me along with the rain makes it impossible to see out into the open.
Another mew, closer this time.
It has to be an animal, but the rain is coming down so hard I can see hardly ten feet in front of me. I duck back inside the house to grab my coat, and hastily throw it on, pulling the hood up around my face to attempt to block out some of the rain. When I step back outside, I look around next to the porch for any sign of an animal, but I see nothing but the rain blurring my vision.
I walk alongside the cabin using the light from the porch to see the best I can, and then I see it. Soaked to the bone, a tiny baby kitten stuck in the drain pan from the gutters. Its black fur is completely matted to its body and even five feet away I can see it shivering. Running over to where it lays, I bend down and slowly approach to see if it's skittish, but the poor thing is too cold and freezing to be worried about me. It mews over and over until I'm able to free it's paw with my own shaking, ice cold hands. Bundling it close to my chest, I run back inside from the rain, only pausing to secure all of the locks behind me then straight to the bathroom to get a towel to wrap it in.
I take a towel from the cabinet and wrap the little baby in the fluffy towel to try and take the chill away, then discard my wet dripping coat onto the counter behind me. I'm still shivering from the bitter cold rain, but all I can focus on is getting this baby dry and warm. After a few minutes of towel drying, the kitten opens its eyes, revealing bright yellow eyes and gives me a small meow, that instantly makes me smile.
"Did you lose your mama sweet girl?" I coo, nestling her against my chest.
I can't imagine putting her back out in the rain. Looking down at her snuggled into my embrace, it makes my heart pain with longing. I could use a roommate… it is awfully lonely here by myself. It's a little sad that my only companion for the near future is probably going to be a kitten, but I guess if anything she'll make a great listener.
"Do you want to stay here with me? Keep my company and have a warm place to sleep?" I ask even though all I get is another round of meows as I rub her still damp head.
"What will I call you?"
I contemplate over a name while I walk over to the bed and gently sit, careful not to jostle her. All the while, her eyes never open and she never stirs from her position inside of the towel. Perfectly content to be warm, snuggled up, and out of the rain.
Tonight, I feel safe. I feel secure in a place where I don't have to be afraid or on edge.
"I think I'll call you... Hope."
3
Sebastian
The sprawling estate that I've called "home" since childhood comes into view as I pull my Rover into the massive wrought iron gates. Obnoxiously large, and completely ostentatious. The house itself is daunting, stark white, meant to draw attention because of course my father needs everyone in St. Augustine to know he is wealthy.
The guy is a pretentious dick hole.
Bert, the gatekeeper, tips his head as I drive through then promptly closes the gates behind me. He's been around since I was a kid, and I've heard him say about three full sentences. Not much of a talker that one. I park in the driveway next to my mom’s Porsche and get out, shutting the door shut behind me. When I walk across the threshold I'm assaulted by the smell of fresh baked cookies and my mouth immediately begins to water. I can almost taste the sugar I’ve been depriving myself of for so long. Hockey is strenuous and I have to turn away junk and sweets to keep myself in the best condition possible for the ice.
"Mom? Maria? Who’s got the cookies because they’re making my mouth water," I call out as I walk through the foyer. My question is met with silence.
I head in the direction of the kitchen assuming she must be there if she’s baking cookies. When I round the corner, I see her standing over a large red bowl, bits of dough on every surface including in her hair. She’s so engrossed in her stirring she doesn’t even realize I’ve entered.
"Mom?"
Her head whips up and her tear filled eyes meet mine.
What the fuck?
The blood in my veins runs cold. Pure, unadulterated fury seizes my body, and I'm completely frozen in place.
Dark blue and purplish tinted bruises cover the skin around her eye. Her hair is disheveled and her face is completely free of makeup; she looks nothing like herself. Nothing like the woman who raised me to always remain composed and proper. The moment her eyes connect with mine her face crumples in a wave of hurt and defeat which does nothing to calm the anger inside of me. I can see the pain written all over her face.
It makes me fucking rage.
I run over to where she stands still clutching the bowl of cookie dough and immediately pull her to me, holding on so tight I fear if I let go, she'll fall apart at my feet. The bowl falls to the ground with a thud and dough flies in every direction, but right now I don’t give a shit.
“How did this happen? Mom, look at me. Tell me what's happened,” I ask even though I already know the answer. I want her to say it out loud. I want to hear the words from her mouth. I tighten my arms around her small, frail frame and drop my lips to the top of her hair, rocking her against me as the sobs wrack her body.
"Mom..." My voice trails off raggedly.
A guy could be the strongest man in the world but when it comes to your mother you turn into a pussy, you’d do anything in the world to see her smile, to take her hurt away or go after anyone who has wronged her.
"He did this to you?" I ask as she sags further against me.
Her voice comes out barely a whisper "Sebastian… Things have just be-en… I-" she stammers.
I knew the second I saw the bruises my father was the one responsible. It’s not that I’m shocked he’s hit her, I’m shocked he did it somewhere that couldn’t be hidden.
"Do not make excuses for him. Mom, he hit you. He hurt you and you're still making excuses for him. I'm going to kill him."
She pulls back to look in my eyes and I see the heartbreak within the depths. It makes me wonder how long this has been going on, how long has she been putting up with physical abuse? I know how much of an asshole my father is, but I had no clue he was actually hurting her. It doesn’t surprise me he’s capable of this.
"Sebastian please, please do not get involved," she pleads with me almost desperately, gripping my arm so tightly there’ll be marks later. She's terrified.
I can't help but
feel so fucking guilty for not knowing this was happening. My heart pounds in my chest as I hold her. I’m torn between comforting her and beating the shit out of my father for hurting her.
"Mom, I could've protected you. I would've done something, anything, if it meant getting you away from him so he wouldn't hurt you. I want you to leave. Go to the summer house in the Hamptons. Go to Europe, hell I don't care where you go but you can't stay here."
"Sebastian, it's complicated. Your father just has a lot going on at work and we got into an argument and things escalated. He was drinking… This has never happened before," she says quietly avoiding my stare, and I can see straight through her lie. It's why she won't meet my eyes.
"You can't continue to excuse this, Mom, not like you excuse everything else that he does." I loosen my grip and pull back to force her to look at me. "I can't let this go. I can't go back to school knowing you might not be safe around him. I'm just gonna worry about whether you're okay and want to come home all the time to check on you. This is not okay. He’s a piece of shit." My voice raises as I feel the anger spilling over into my words. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down.
In and out, I count to ten in my head. I’m aware that it’s hardly working because I’m so goddamn mad.
My entire life he's spent holding my mother, my trust fund, and my name over my head like it's a weapon for him to use at any moment and I'm sick of it.
"Where is he now?" I whisper angrily.
She stands without meeting my eyes and begins cleaning up the kitchen, cleaning dough and flour from the counters with a wet rag until I stop her from wiping a hole into the countertop.
"He's at work, Sebastian, where else would he be? Where he always is." She turns her back toward the sink busying herself with the dishes.
I don’t think I can remember a time I've ever seen my mom in the kitchen baking, let alone washing dishes, which only makes me think this is so much worse than she's letting it on to be. It's clear she had no plan of ever letting me know this is going on, and I just so happened to show up when she couldn't hide what he had done. How did she keep it a secret if he’s done it before? So many questions without answers.
“Mom, you’ve got to get out of here. You know I have to go back to St. Augustine, I can’t imagine you being here with him.” I clench my fists by my side to quell the anger.
“Sebastian, you know it’s not that easy.” She avoids my gaze.
It’s always the same thing. He hurts her, even if it wasn’t physically until now, and she stays. Putting up with his shit for reasons I can’t fucking understand.
“Go back to school, and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“Right. You look fine, Mom.”
I walk over and give her another tight hug, whispering into the top of her hair, "I do need to get back, I have hockey practice in an hour and a paper to write by tomorrow. Mom, please, please leave, even if it's only for a while. For my sake and yours."
She nods, but doesn’t respond to what I’ve said.
I leave even though it’s the last thing I want to do. It was too late for her to try and pretend this is okay. Too late to make excuses for him, too late to continue to let him get away with all of the shady things that he does just because he believes himself to be a God.
“There are muscles in my ass that hurt, that I didn't even know fucking existed. ” Alec groans from his spot on the living room floor. He's face down on the rug, and I hate to be the one to tell him, but getting up it's going to be ten times worse than getting down there.
"If I ever have to do another burpee, I'd rather just die. Bury me with some edibles so I can get high as fuck and float on some clouds.”
I laugh in response and groan when my muscles tense. Fuck, what I really need is an ice bath so cold I freeze my dick off, some Tylenol, and at least twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep to recover. It's a miracle I was able to focus on practice at all when all I could think about were the bruises on Mom's face. I channeled the rage I feel about my father into the ice and I skated harder, I blocked faster and I was quicker on my feet than ever. I guess anger really is a motivator. I just wish it didn't involve my mother at all.
"Remind me why coach is punishing us again? My brain is too tired to remember." Alec's voice is muffled against the material of the rug.
While practice is always grueling, this was on a whole new level. Coach was making an example of the entire team after a dumb ass freshman was caught sneaking out of the girls’ dorms at four a.m., without half of his clothes. He's lucky we don't all beat his ass for putting the whole team through this just so he could get some pussy. As captain, it's my responsibility to keep the guys in line and I would've had I known what the fuck was going on. That's an issue for another time, preferably one where I can lift my arm higher than my waist without wanting to cry.
Even though almost every muscle in my body is on fire I still want to check in with Mom, make sure she's headed somewhere that isn't the Pierce estate. I find her contact in my iPhone and lift it to my ear. It rings and rings, but then goes to voicemail.
Goddamnit, Mom.
Alec looks up at me and sees the worry on my face, "Everything good?"
I look away and find a small flake in the paint on the wall to focus on, avoiding answering right away. These were my brothers, in every sense of the word, but I was embarrassed and fucking ashamed to bring my problems like this to them. I didn't want anyone to know that my dad was even more of a piece of shit than I thought. At the same time, we didn't keep shit from each other. We told each other everything. You bleed, I bleed. The same motto since fifth grade.
"Have you seen Rhys?' I ask, realizing he disappeared after practice and didn’t show up at the dorm.
"Probably with Carmichael if I had to guess. Tormenting her, aka sex to him. Weird ass.”
"He's been gone a lot lately, think he's freaking over Ezra?"
I pull myself off the couch and walk into the kitchen to pull an ice pack out of the freezer for us both. Thankfully, my mother sends Clarissa over once a week to replenish groceries and check that we have enough Gatorade, ice packs, and IcyHot. She also cleans the dorm twice a month, but none of us are sloppy guys. We keep our space clean, and try not to live like slobs so it's not much for her to actually do when she does come. None the less, I'm thankful we have someone to look after our dumb asses because living with a bunch of guys isn't always a walk in the park.
"Here," I grunt and toss the plastic ice pack to Alec on the floor. It barely misses his hand and lands with a thud.
"I think Lucifer the fallen has a thing for Carmichael and he's not saying shit, not that he would because he's a broody fuck, but still."
He's probably right. Rhys is… closed off. I guess. He keeps a lot of shit to himself, never really voicing it unless it's bothered him and then he finally speaks up. Silent but deadly type. Even though he's not one to volunteer the information, it would surprise me if he had something going on with her cause he's a love ‘em and leave ‘em type of guy. Most likely to never commit.
Alec would be the one voted most likely to be perpetually stoned. That was pre-hockey, but if he could the dude would be high as a fucking kite twenty four seven. Laid back, California state of mind. Nothing bothers him. Everything is golden, even when it's not.
Then, you've got Ezra. Ezra is complicated. He's quiet, but when he speaks, you listen. He's been through a lot of shit in his life, and he handles things with the kind of wisdom that only comes from years of experiencing shit he was way too young to experience. You'd think after the trauma he's been through he'd be cold, but that's not the case. He's distant. Never lets anyone get too close and never lets himself get too close to anyone.
That just leaves me. I don't know who I am, and I guess that's part of my problem. I know who I'm supposed to be. I know that the person everyone expects me to be, and the person that I want to be aren't the same. Everyone expects me to be a Pierce. What else would I be? The r
ich kid with more money than sense, right? The one who doesn't take life seriously, and doesn't give a shit if he fucks up because someone will always be there to save him. Or maybe they believe I'm happy because I pretend to be for everyone. They see the smile on my face, the people surrounding me, but the truth is, I'm fucking lonely and I'm tired of living for everyone but myself.
This shit with my mom? All it's done is made me realize if I continue letting my father control every aspect of my life, then I'll end up miserable and follow in his footsteps, hating the person I became all because I was forced into a life I never wanted.
I have to figure out how to get my mom out of there safely and without jeopardizing my trust fund. It wasn’t even about the money to me, but I knew my father would take anything and everything he could from her, leaving her destitute. Money is just another thing he uses to control both of us.
I pick up my cell and try her to call her again for the second time, but get voicemail once more. I'm sure my father's home now and she's going to avoid my call.
"I'm gonna go soak in an ice bath and get some sleep, I'm fucking beat," I tell Alec who only grunts in response, still face down on the rug of the living room. I may need to come check on him whenever I'm through and make sure he's still breathing.
My quads burn as I walk into the bathroom attached to my room, the perk of daddy dearest paying for the dorm means I get the master suite and bathroom. I lean over the massive jacuzzi bath and turn on the water in the tub. Adding the bucket of ice and putting it on the counter, I rest my forearms on the granite of the vanity. My reflection in the mirror is even more daunting than normal. My gaze drifts over my jaw, the slope of my nose, and the same blueish gray eyes as my father. The second I think of him my stomach twists into a knot and I think about everything that happened today and the shit at home waiting for me. Like the scab of a fresh wound ripped off, and the bitter sting of air hitting the wound.