“I stood there not knowing what do or say. No one at the hospital believed me either. She went to the cabinet and got a glass and poured a whiskey and then she got my glass, the one with the little daisies on the rim and poured me my first drink, watered it down from the tap and handed it to me. She told me it would help dull the pain. I just stared at her not knowing what to do but to drink it, I sipped it, and it was bitter and burned. She lit a cigarette and sat in silence waiting for me to drink it, not saying a word. I knew she had chosen Declan over me and it didn’t matter what he did because he did the worse thing anyone could have done. I downed that drink, coughing and sputtering and she walked away.”
Oliver shifted to the other side of the doorway to watch her, saddened that not only was she raped by her stepfather but her mother allowed it and making Sophie ashamed of her own body. For the first time, he saw tears in her eyes but she choked them back and proceeded.
“I was fourteen, Oliver,” she looked up at him to see a reaction but was relieved that he wasn’t surprised, he moved forward instead and reaching out his hand this time and she clasped as friends do in the manner of a greeting, sideways. The warmth of his hand permeated her cold one.
Sophie nervously scraped his hand with her thumbnail lightly, “I cried, more than I ever cried, I let the tears fall on my shirt, on the floor, into my glass. I was hurt and angry and threw my favourite glass with the daisies, hurled it right across the kitchen with everything I had and after it shattered, I dropped down to my knees by the cooker to clean up the pieces but I couldn’t see for the tears. And that was the first time.”
Sophie moved the towel aside again, still holding Oliver’s hand; with the other she traced the scars. “I picked up a piece and held it feeling the daisies under my thumb and then I took the splintered end,” indicating with her nail what she had done, “At first, it barely scratched, just leaving a white mark. Then deeper, just scratching the surface, then again breaking the skin and finally,” she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, reliving the delicious feeling.
“I stopped crying, reached up and gripped the cooker door, grasped the glass tightly, clenched my teeth so that my mum couldn’t hear me and cut as deep as I could stand until I felt the blood trickle down around my thigh.” Squeezing his hand rather hard, he still didn’t move.
Opening her eyes, she looked Oliver straight in the face and sighed, relaxed, her shoulders dropped and her grip eased up, “I can’t tell you how freeing it was. To be able to take the emotional pain so great, so far beyond any comprehension and reducing it to a single….bleeding….cut. I was in control of this pain and no one else. And that, by the way, was the only sex talk me and mum ever had.” She laughed a small chuckle, “Funny, the blood didn’t affect me anymore after that until I met you.”
He smiled at her. “She was wrong, men can control themselves. Man, woman, it’s the person that makes the difference. You do understand that right,” he stood up, helping her stand.
“So you were tempted,” she looked up innocently at him. She had her pride.
“Very,” always, he thought.
His answer made her have faith in him, trust him but, “I don’t know that I ever can. I know it’s supposed to be enjoyable but what if it’s not for me and never can be?”
“That just means it doesn’t feel right yet and you’ll know when it does, you won’t doubt it or have questions about it. If we had last night, I don’t want to think about how that would affect you today. As I said last night, when you’re ready and not a moment sooner,” he took the towel from her and threw it back in the bathroom. “Are you hungry, yet?”
“I can’t think about food right now,” she said her hand to her stomach, empty but still queasy, her head rested on the door jam.
“What would you like to do?”
“Honestly? I would like to sleep if that’s ok,” she felt drained.
“Of course, you can have my bed. I’m pretty sure you’ve slept in it lately more than I have,” he ushered her in the bedroom pulling back the covers for her and tucking her in. His bed, she noticed, was always made and every time he put her to bed, he tucked her in like a child. She didn’t want to admit it but she loved the gesture. Something about it made her feel protected. Sitting beside her he said, “I’ll have dinner ready when you wake up.”
“Can you stay with me, just until I sleep,” the softness of the bed already making her too drowsy to keep her eyes open.
Yes, a thousand times, yes, he thought but only answered by going to the other side and laying on top of the duvet, propped up on one elbow he watched her breathing deeply. She put her hand on his chest and pressed her fingertips alternately.
“You’re starting to remember,” he put his hand over hers and brought it to his lips, “it could have been worse for you, I’ve seen worse.” For a second she had fallen asleep when the sound of his voice brought her back.
“What do you mean,” she asked her eyes not opening.
“Only three times, it could have been worse.”
“Not three times,” she yawned, “three years,” and with that she drifted to sleep.
Three years, three bloody years she had to endure with that monster and a worthless mother only to live on the streets. Being homeless seemingly a better option than being at home. He wanted to find them, wanted to bring them to her so she could pierce them with her poison. He was glad she was asleep; being angry about her past would do neither of them any good.
Within a few minutes she was quietly snoring, he put his head down on the pillow, one hand under it watching her eyes move under her eyelids, her chest rising with each breath, her hand lying on her stomach, fingers occasionally flinching.
Thinking about what Mona and Mariella had said, that he was attracted to distressed women, maybe that was true but what was wrong with that. What was wrong with wanting to make Sophie happy and making sure she was safe, if he could do so?
The difference between Sophie and the other women he dated was that her worst experiences made her strong. She wasn’t dependent, she didn’t ask to be loved or complain when she wasn’t loved enough, didn’t beckon for constant attention. Maybe she never had enough of it to know what it felt like to lose it. Now that he knew what happened to her, the dark cloud of her pain hovered over him as well.
Maybe it was his job to keep her from harming even herself, or Sydney, remembering that ultimately the wound on her side was, no matter how inadvertently, Sydney’s fault. Maybe he should look for her. But that was a whole other dilemma.
“Don’t,” she whimpered in her sleep pushing at his hand but not aware enough to have the strength to actually move it.
“Shhh,” he said and fell asleep also.
***
He awoke around five o’clock, Sophie still resting peacefully. He would make dinner but not wake her to eat. Lying on his back, watching as the room became dark. Oliver set out to make a chicken stew for her.
Sophie, heard him in the kitchen, she could barely make out the melancholy music playing, indicative of his mood. Oliver heard a rustle behind him, Sophie putting her trousers on. He had not heard her come in but he did not acknowledge her until she made herself known to him. Before he knew it she was beside him, “What are you cooking?”
“Something my mum made for us when we were ill.”
“I really have to go home, shower, change, I can’t stay here tonight. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
He stopped stirring. “You could bring some things here if you like,” she started to protest, but his hand flew up to stop her, and then cupped her cheek. “I’m offering you can do what you like. I’ll get you a key so you can come and go as you please, if you please. I...work a lot of hours so I’m not here half the time.” He waited to see if she had a response to that but she didn’t.
Indicating the pot he asked “Can you handle some now?”
Grimacing, “No I don’t think so.”
“To go then?”
“To go.” He stirred the pot and felt her lingering behind him but he dared not turn. The warmth of her hand was on his shoulder and it slid down his arm, “I’m sorry,” she began, “if you feel ,” Sophie put her head on his back on his shoulder blade, he stopped moving, turning his head towards her, “my pain. It’s not your burden and I know right now you feel wretched for me.”
Oliver, put his hand on hers, “How did you know?”
She chuckled; he turned quickly to catch the amusement before it dissipated, “The music Oliver, the music. Come on, take me home. I can go alone but I know you will come along anyway.”
Wrong on one count, it was his burden. As long as he carried a torch for her, he carried the burden too. Holding her coat for her, she slid her arms in, her left side twinged only slightly but her body was electrified when his fingertips brushed the nape of her neck pulling her hair out over her coat as he had seen her do before and he was at ease to do so for her. It was a small gesture that spoke volumes.
Packed up soup in hand they caught the train. It was slightly longer from his flat to hers if they took the train instead of a taxi.
He put the soup in her fridge, leaving his coat on; he knew he wasn’t invited to stay but… “Would you like me to stay for a while?”
Not answering right away, she hesitated, “No, I need some time to… forget that I told you anything.”
“You don’t need to forget that. I know and it makes me want to be around you even more.”
She nodded her head in disagreement, “Don’t think, Oliver, because of this new found revelation about me means I need you.”
Smiling and caressing her face he replied, “No, of course not,” his lips pressed against her forehead and then he placed his forehead against hers so they were nose to nose. She clutched the lapels of his coat, he whispered, “But as your friend when you are in need, I’m yours.”
He started to move away but her hands still clutched his lapels for another few seconds that he cherished and she let go.
“Remember Mozart, I don’t think I’ll have a chance to see you until then.”
“Of course,” she smiled knowingly, understanding.
“But I will wait for you in anticipation,” his hand cupped her face, his thumb swiped her cheek and she thought he was going to kiss her again; the anticipation for her was now in this moment but he turned to leave.
“Oh,” she spoke after him, “what do I wear.”
“Um, small venue, something nice but not too posh.”
“Like what?” She was confused.
“I nice frock, simple.”
“That means I have to go shopping.”
“Then go shopping.”
Chapter 23: An Accusation
Sophie spent hours the next day trying to shop, she was hopeless at it and kept feeling that eyes were on her. Nothing had happened with Sydney lately but she always felt like she might just show up anytime and she was on edge because of it.
Sometimes she caught a glimpse of a woman with long dark hair and Sophie would follow that person until it was confirmed she was not Sydney. Surely, she wouldn’t just approach her in public. After a while she relaxed and spent as much as she wanted and it was after dark when she got home.
Oliver appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her arm pushing her inside urgently. She stumbled in the door her shopping falling on the floor, tubes of paint and brushes scattering, the bags with the dress and shoes for the opera flew across the room. If his grip had not been so tight, he would have knocked her down. “What are you doing?” she yelled, startled.
He gripped her arms and shook her fiercely, “You did it. You bloody did it didn’t you?!” He said it with fury in his voice and his face distorted into something she had never seen before. He looked like someone else completely.
“You’re hurting me! Let me go!” He pushed her away with a force that almost threw her off her feet, his hands in the air. She had never seen him upset and definitely not violent. This side of him frightened her; it was so out of his character. This wasn’t the calm, caring, sweet natured Oliver. This was a man no longer in control of his emotions, an explosion.
“How could you do it?” Disdain and disappointment dripped from his accusation, his cat eyes narrowing and a pained look on his face. He took off his coat, throwing it across the coffee table.
Sophie was confused; she didn’t know what he was accusing her of. “Do what?” Her brows furrowed from her bewilderment.
“Sam.” Oliver turned his back to her and started pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. Sophie walked behind the chair putting it between them. His agitation mounting, she was unsure what he would do. She never thought she would fear Oliver of all people.
“What about him?” Sophie asked with the last bit of air in her body before choking in more. Her heart was still beating in her ears from the force at which he pushed her in the door.
Turning to confront her again, he pointed his finger at her agitated, “Oh don’t, just don’t,” he said through clenched teeth, pushing the chair out of the way so fast, one swift move and it slid across the floor clearing the path between them. She only managed one step before he was in front of her, his hands on her. “He had a heart attack a week after we were there, at his house, with his family.” The look on her face echoed how he felt when he placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her to look up at his face.
“I didn’t…,” she replied flinching when he placed pressure on either side of her head before letting go, her head tapped the wall behind her slightly.
He saw her flinch and misinterpreted it, blinded by rage. Turning away again he was silent, thinking and shaking his head. “You’re just a cold hearted….”
“That may be true,” Sophie interrupted, “but I couldn’t do what you’re accusing me of,” chin tilting defiantly in the air, waiting for him to face her again. She was secretly devastated that he could think that she would hurt those dearest to him, the only friend she has and yet wasn’t she the one that tried to convince him that she was a destructive force, ironically not in this case.
“No? You do it all the time,” he whipped around, his head titled to one side, eyebrows raised in question. He crept slowly towards her, like an animal before it pounces on its prey.
“And people have heart attacks all the time, as you well know.”
“You’re telling me it’s a coincidence that we were there and then this is how he dies suddenly,” his voice broke.
“Aren’t heart attacks always sudden?” She tried to step back forgetting that she was already at the wall when his eyes narrowed. “Why would I lie about it, to you of all people? You know what I do, what I’ve done. I couldn’t keep a secret from you now if I tried.” Her voice became shaky when what seemed like an eternity passed, he looked down into her face.
“Self-preservation, Sophie! You’re motivation for everything, self-preservation, something good comes along in your life and you have to demolish it, us, and for what,” he asked with a sarcastic chuckle, abruptly turning away only to pivot and turn her way again. He drew near, her back against the wall, he came close enough that his face was just a few inches from hers, looking down at her, his eyes red, and the muscles working in his jaw, he spoke through clenched teeth. “You’re too afraid to live any kind of a real life, to love, to be loved, to be happy so it’s not much of a sacrifice for you,” the last word had so much anger behind it, she felt it, like it was something tangible.
The last sentence was like a slap in the face and it made her angry, “You don’t believe that.” She started to sidestep to get away from him when his arm darted out his palm slammed against the wall, startling her again and blocking her way.
“You knew I cared about you too much and you played me for a fool. I took you right to him,” he said, poking her in the chest with each word. He hit the wall beside her, making her jump again, before turning his back to her. He ran his hand through his hair, agitated.
Sophie took a
deep breath, “Cared? You don’t care about me anymore?” Somewhat defeated by his admission, a pain she had never felt before ached in her heart. It felt like it dropped to her stomach and then to the floor, the breath escaped her lungs. But didn’t she anticipate the loss of his friendship, the same as all her relationships? She didn’t know however it would be so painful.
“I’m talking about the death of the man who was more like a brother to me than my own brother, and you’re worried about whether or not I care about you anymore? I hate you,” he spat out, choking on the tears and the words, pointing at her as if there was any doubt who he was talking to. The sound of contempt in the back of his throat choked him and his face angry, his breathing was shallow and harsh, tears in his eyes.
“No,” he shook his head again, disagreeing with himself, “I hate myself because it’s not possible… for me to hate you when my heart….” His hand went to his chest briefly before dropping back to his side. Suddenly, he looked defeated and swallowed hard and his tone changed to that of someone deeply wounded. Oliver placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head back staring at the ceiling.
“Because you think I’m lying to you or because you think I killed Sam? I don’t…” Sophie kept her distance, off balance by Oliver’s behaviour.
“Kill? Make no mistake, Sophie, your poison kills, in more ways than one your poison kills.” He dropped heavily into the chair opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees and placing his head in his hands, as if he couldn’t hold his head up any longer. “I am helpless now,” his voice muffled. “What am I to do?”
Sophie walked over to him, reaching her hand, wanting to touch the top of his head but thought better of it and taking a step back, she second guessed her approach. “It’s not random Oliver,” her voice barely more than a whisper, appealing to his practical side since his emotions were rampant and blinding.
“I’m so tired; you take all my energy, Sophie”, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, his voice became raspy. “Caring about you takes all my energy sometimes. But I have no choice in the matter do I?”
The Poison Morality Page 21