Author's Note: Hello there ! Please offer any criticism or thoughts you have on this chapter - all reviews are very much appreciated
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters!
Chapter One
The wind whipped around my family's old two-storey home as I huddled up in my quilt, looking ruefully out the window. My searching eyes scanned the landscape as torrential rain poured without mercy and splattered with regretful denouement against the now muddy grass. The frenetically constant downpour was to be expected here in La Push, but tonight, it just felt so wrong.
I turned away from my window and settled quietly into my bed. I pulled my blankets up past my neck and over my head, enveloping myself under the sheets. Stretching out the cloth a few inches from my face, I tried to make out pictures in the nighttime. The fabric was my screen and my head was the projector, as I conjured up images of warmer times. A lone shiver gently shook my pale green bed sheet that was immersed in the darkness of 11pm, breaking my reverie.
"Where is he?" I questioned exasperatedly under my breath.
Quil had been gone now for three days.
And in those past three days, this small town had become even more static than usual. All the "protectors" of La Push were M.I.A, which made me even more anxious about Quil's sudden departure. All the possible risks involved with their job flashed fiercely through my head, adding more unease to the growing pit in my stomach. As far as I knew, none of them held weapons of any kind. So what chance did they stand against a crazed gunman or a wild animal? Granted, Uncle Sam and his "pack" (as they often referred to themselves) were hardly weaklings. They were all six-foot-something and looked somewhat indestructible with their bulky muscles.
At first, I was mildly relieved that at least I'd have a little "Claire-time," without the irreverently overprotective Quil around, taking note of when I'd last eaten and watching me intently as if I were about to go jump off the cliffs near First Beach. But even though Quil could be ridiculous at times, there was no one in this world I trusted more.
Some days I think that I really love Quil. He was my very best friend. My mother and Aunt Emily had told me, that ever since I was two-years-old, I had been inseparable from him. But that sharp, undeniable emotion took me by perfect surprise only a few months ago. It dawned on me during another Quil-less afternoon, where he was out working and I was sitting on the ocean's shore, waiting for the tide to come in. That day at the beach, I stretched out on the sand, with my toes just skimming the edge of the water. The game was based on suspense; waiting in anticipation, yet being totally unprepared when, within minutes, the tide gushes in and soaks through your thin summer clothes. As per usual, I grinned at the sudden invigorating coolness of the water, but was quickly reminded of what was missing. Quil and I had played this game when we were younger. It was in that moment that it officially dawned on me how much he was truly apart of my very existence. A shy sense of longing filled up my chest, and I clutched onto my sides, to steady myself.
I remember that I couldn't look at him in the eye for days after that. He had been worried about what was wrong, but I couldn't admit my attraction to him and how much I desired him to be in love with me too. Despite my trying to deny the delicate swirls that built up with intensity from deep within my belly at the mere thought of Quil, they existed. However, I was beleaguered with inevitable problems. Part of it was the shame I felt. I felt tiny and insignificant. Quil was far too old for me, and I was probably misinterpreting 'love.' People threw that word around too much these days.
There were days when I would think intensely about why we just were. We existed separately, yet were somehow intrinsically linked. These introspective days gave me headaches. I could never truly figure it out and it bothered me. To my knowledge, there were always truths hidden beneath the murky obscurity. And that's exactly what Quil was to me - I knew his reactions; I knew the sound of his voice, the common phrases he articulated and the movements he made. He was as loyal as a dog; but there was always a distance.
The inner critic tore me down and sewed me back up again – war weary but still able to fight. I tried to stop thinking about it too much because I didn't want to let myself be hurt by unrequited love.
But inevitably, we all do.
And now he was gone and I didn't like it at all. He was always the one warning me about the dangers of going anywhere alone and now he was probably off doing the same, in the rain no less!
I rolled over to face the violent storm outside my window.
I had given up on trying to sleep that evening. "Nevermind," I thought to myself, glancing over the contents of my messy room, searching for maybe a note or a sign to tell me where Quil was. My eyes pored over the piles of paper that littered my carpet and most probably, could be deemed a fire hazard, but there was nothing unfamiliar about the school notes that cluttered my room. My tripod and camera remained still, struggling to maintain it's upright position amongst the throng of winter paraphernalia and unsorted photographs. The inky shadows that cast themselves upon the floor expressively moved to the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain and distracted me for a minute.
A peal of thunder irreverently resurrected me, as I tossed yet again, in anxiousness. I faced the wall in disdain as the clangourous weather raged on behind me.
"It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't expect him to be here," I mused silently, gently tracing my fingers over the patterns on my quilt. How did I not suspect that that something was wrong? The feeling of his parting embrace was so final. My mind shifted back in time to remember our last meeting over three days ago, where he clutched onto me in a subtle desperation and the smallest hint of fear was present in his brown eyes. These were the moments that usually triggered the introspection, the reading between the lines, the over-analysis. But for some stupid reason (the giddy, hormonal sensation in the knees and stomach?), I was prevented from thinking clearly. "He was saying goodbye…" I mouthed to myself softly.
"No, no…" I repeated. I wouldn't believe that. I couldn't. He'd come back.
"He'll come back, right?" I questioned out loud. I threw it out there, into the world, half wanting a sign, half not expecting one.
However, the crude clamour of metal falling and paper shuffling abruptly alerted me to the unknown presence behind me. I immediately shifted into a somewhat defensive position on my bed, when I looked up and realised it was none other than the ever-graceful Quil, struggling with remaining vertical after tripping over an unseen coat hanger on the floor.
"Claire - " he began, in a clearly repentant tone.
Part of me wanted to kill the guy, the other part made my lips form into a wide smile and throw myself at him with full force. He stumbled backwards but took me into his wide arms as I rested my head into his chest. I could feel his muscles relax underneath me, and his ragged breathing slowed down into a calm rhythm.
"Never leave me like that again, Quil," I murmured gently into his chest.
"Never," he responded, with a certain sense of resolve that didn't escape me this time. His warmth enclosed me in a comforting feeling of familiarity. Quil had always been one to hug me, to let me know how much he truly cared for me. Despite the many friends that I had gone through during school, Quil was always the one common thread in my life, sometimes keeping it together. This was the reason why I didn't question his return, but welcomed him back. By the time I had reached the age of fifteen, I had started to realise how much Quil sacrificed for me and for my happiness. Now, at the age of seventeen, I felt deeply indebted to this man, who for some reason felt compelled to make sure I was always okay.
I looked up at him and noticed the tired bags under his eyes.
"You should sleep, Quil," I said with concern, moving away from him and offering him my bed.
He shook his head and pulled me back to him, where he rested his head against mine. We stood like this for a few moments, before I could feel him open his mouth to speak again.
"I should go," he whispered into my ear, regretful responsibility dripping from his every word.
I nodded into him, too tired now to try and refute his statement. The green neon time, flashed into view and told me it was already 2:39am. My wired and anxious feeling of prior had washed away into a calm lethargy.
"Quil is okay," I thought, half-awake, as he put me into bed and secured the covers tightly around me.