She couldn't face going back indoors.
If she walked in, their faces would look up at her, polite, expectant; they would be ready to make allowances. The meal would be finished: her plate and her scattered cutlery would have been quickly removed from the table. Her toppled chair would be righted, the small chip in it turned away so nobody could see it. Her mother would say something to smooth over her rudeness, and the others would make sympathetic noises, some of them genuine.
No-one understood. They would be having coffee now, passing the cream, passing the sugar, in the large living room with the windows closed against the summer evening - as if it could harm them, as if nothing had changed
Everything had changed
At the top of the stairs to the garden, she filled her lungs with cool air. It was dusk. A faint light from the windows fell on the terrace, and a fountain played below, splashing any bird that dared to venture near. The trickle out to be soothing, but nothing could soothe her; she had to get away, go back. Down the steps, out of sight of the house. Away to somewhere that would be welcoming when she got home. Somewhere she could live. Mown lawn welcomed her feet, yielding silently to her tread. The cool toughness of cypress leaves brushed her face as she pushed through the row of conifers; the air was heavy with the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth. She closed her eyes as memory surged through her like the delayed after-shock of pain. She felt detached from her body: from her walking feet, her breathing lungs.
In the lower garden, she paused for a moment to listen, staring towards Scotland, and thinking of the fun she had there. Had. People said you could hear the screams of dying people, even from this distance. Nothing. She felt oddly disappointed hearing only the whirr of moth wings, the clear hoot of an owl in the copse next to the house, just catching the swishing flicker of bats wings. Nothing else disturbed the silence.
She lowered her head and walked on towards the glimmer of the lake, the only soothing remedy she could ever find. Along a mossy path, down a leaf strewn clutter of steps. You can't do it. You can't make a bargain with them. She had once thought of them as parents, now she thought of them as enemies. Funny how your view of people changes with one little action, one little comment. She laughed derisively.
The story of her life.
The evening was a relief from the heat of the day, so blisteringly hot and humid that your clothes stuck to your body, like a second skin. She didn't bother taking off her clothes, just leapt in. The freezing water rushed up over her body to her face, making a shiver run up her back. She was the first to ruffle the smooth glittering surface of the lake tonight, and she hoped she would be the only one. Not that she didn't enjoy watching Hope's brother Charity swimming. The first dive, a flying arrow, a deep, sure underwater curve, making gold tails of fish flicker away into the weed that grew. It was like watching a wild animal; humans fought the water, Charity rode it.
Butterfly was his specialty. Arched back, the trail and fling of arms, hips undulating in the rhythmic sway and push; he was the master of the water, and the water mastered him. Gleaming all over he would pull himself out after a vigorous session and walk over to the fruit trees and pick whatever fruit was in season. As he usually swam at sunset, 'best time to practice: after a hard day', the red light would come streaming through the branches and glance of him. It was easily photographable. Lean muscles making subtle curves all over his body, casting a long shadow cross the width of grass.
She came up gasping and shivering. Deciding it was too cold to stay; she pulled herself out and stood in the half-light, watching the house. No, not yet. She turned away and padded through the trees, relishing the soft tufts of grass that enclosed her foot in a brushing tangle of green, and the occasional shock of old pinecones that dropped last year or the years before, and lay undisturbed in the same grass, making her foot recoil as she trod lightly on them.
As she emerged at the other end of the copse, she was confronted by the sudden wash of heat from the sun, now low in the sky, seeming so close to the hill that she was sure she could touch it. Instead, she sat up against the nearest trunk of a cypress tree and watched the red shimmering circle fall lower and lower into the sky, leaving the sky at mercy to the darkness of night. A slight warm breeze slugged its way up the hill and brushed close to her, teasing her hair and clothes dry. It curled its long tentacles around her body, feeling out every crack and drying them for her. It flicked its gentle hands lazily underneath her neck, desperately trying to pull her away, to keep her with it. It was lonely, with only the landscape it happened to come across to keep it company. When she refused to move, it blew itself into an angry rage and whipped around her, and then left back the way it came, taking the fresh scent of water with it.
She sighed and watched a small man in a too large blue overall climbing up the steep hill. The way he occasionally tripped on a small stick and fell forwards, clutching at the tussocks of grass firmly rooted into the solid ground and pulling himself back up told her he had never climbed this hill before. Experienced people, like her mother and father would know the thin beaten track that wound itself in a higgledy-piggledy fashion in every direction but up, that would make sure you never had to keep on the lookout for any unsuspecting stick or hole that may grant itself the liberty of making you tumble down the hill and collect leaves in your hair.
She watched his toil, allowing herself the freedom of a wry smile, until he finally got to the top, and she wiped it off. The man was bent over double, hands on his knees and panting heavily. His black mop of hair fell forward over his face, covering baby blue eyes, a large eagle shaped nose and olive skin. When he recovered he stood back to his full height, around six feet, and smiled a Cheshire cat smile. She frowned.
"You haven't come round for ages. What have you been doing?"
He shrugged off the question easily. "I've been busy." His voice was low and sounded like he didn't use it much. "Why are you out here? Where's your mum?"
She flinched at the sound of that word. He noticed but didn't say anything. She pointed a slightly trembling hand in the vague direction of the house, her face unreadable.
"Thanks Hermione. I've got some stuff to give to Linda, er…Mrs. Granger, er…your mum."
She watched him disappear into the trees, a strange hate running in her blood. She had suspicions that he was the one breaking her family life up, and now she wanted to investigate.
*
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it yet. I'm trying very hard to get a share in it though.
Right, so hello again. It's meeeeeeeeeeee. I'm sorry I've been away for so long. I don't really have an excuse. Ah well. I hope you liked this. Prologue's are allowed to be short.