Chapter 6: Echoes of Emptiness

"I'm right, aren't I?" I'm crying again, but not because of what he's said, but because he's done it. It only took him a few hours, but he's the first one to finally break me down in a long time. I can feel all my work and sweat slowly crack then shatter like a window that's been penetrated with a rock. Then he's behind me.

I feel his presence perfectly, standing there. His arms rub my quivering shoulders. I can't control myself. I turn around and weep into his chest.

When my sobs quiet down, Trystan dries my face with the sleeve of his shirt. He's rocking me, like we were slow dancing to no music. I lift my head to look at him, but because he's taller than me I end up looking at his lips. I stare straight into his eyes, then at his lips again.

Do I want to kiss him? I've been kissed before, but the urge to want has never been this strong. The guys I've kissed, they were only interested in getting in my pants, but he is different. Trystan, it is hard to explain, but I can feel it.

He's not like everyone else. How he is able to control my own body for me. How he is able to get inside my head, unlike everyone else, who has tried and just given up.

His hand comes off the small of my back and cups my cheek gently. He leans down but stops nearly an inch from my lips. His eyes are asking me if it's all right to be doing this. I give him a small nod and close my eyes. I wait. It's the longest two seconds I've ever had to wait, but then I feel his lips brush against mine. They barely skimmed the top, but it was enough.

My lips felt like they were on fire like I was kissing a hot burner.

He pulled back.

Why? Maybe he didn't feel the same thing I did. Maybe he is unsure if I want more, which I do. I don't know again. I don't know anything right now. My head is spinning and I feel very dazed, but I don't want him to stop. So I snake my arms around his neck and pull him close to me.

I've never felt like this before. This is all new to me. I feel like a baby that just took its first steps. I stretch on my toes, looking for his lips with mine. When I find them, I don't let him pull back again. I deepen this kiss so it's not just a light brushing, but an actual kiss. I ignore the blazing flames it's creating. We turn into one person; moving with each other, our mouths in sync. His hands are in my hair, but not lightly like before at the hospital. He's grabbing fist full's and letting it go.

I know I need to stop, but I can't. His hands are resting on my waist now; he's slowing down like he's just read my mind. Trystan pulls back and looks at me, "I do not understand you," is all he says. I smile; a real smile. It feels weird on my face, out of place like it just doesn't belong there.

"I can say the same thing about you." I reply gingerly.

We stand out in the dark for a while. How long? I'm not sure because for once I'm not counting the seconds that pass. I'm just enjoying this moment to its fullest.

After a bit, Trystan begins moving me towards the car. "I'm taking you home." Home; did I not just finish telling you I do not wish to go home?

Like reading my mind he says, "but I'm staying with you. That is if it's alright with you." My voice has disappeared again, so I just nod.

The sun is starting to come up. First all it is is a thin line between night and morning. Then as the minutes pass, it slowly begins to raise itself above the horizon. The sky bursts into color, and the mournful night is erased. I can't even tell it ever happened looking at the sunrise.

We pull into my short narrow driveway. It is empty. Dad obviously hasn't heard anything, and is still out drinking. Trystan looks at the pitiful house I call home; with its shingles a muck on the roof. The door is slightly bent from the slamming it does, and the white paint is peeling. The front lawn isn't bright green like everyone else's, but dead and brown. The living room window is cracked. I remember how it got cracked.

It was November. I'd just gotten into a fight with my mother. I told her I wanted out of this messed up house. I wanted to leave her and my drunken father. I packed my bags up. Every single raggy piece of clothing I owned and my laptop. I trudged down the stairs and placed my suitcase by the door.

She screamed at me. Asked me where I could go at the age of sixteen. I screamed at her; a scream that shook the walls of our fragile little house.

We continued like that for quite a bit. I remember the expression on her face. Vile, filled with a hate I've never seen before. It felt like she would have just picked up my bags and tossed me to the curb herself. She started throwing random excuses at me.

"You're going to become just like your father. Become a prostitute? Is that what you're planning? Sleep with guys for money so you can buy drugs and beer. Get a good high on before you climb into bed with someone else. Next thing I know, you're showing up on my doorstep impregnated with no clue at all as to who the father is." Her words were tiny bullets being fired at me. So I picked up the first thing I saw. It was the weirdest thing; a cookie jar that was placed on the ceramic counter.

It was of a puppy. I picked it up, juggling its weight in both my two hands. Then without thinking, I threw it as hard and as far as I could. It was a long shot, and I wasn't even close to her, instead it hit the window. The jar shattered sending splinters of pottery flying everywhere, and it hit the window so hard that it cracked in all directions.

My mom's eyes were opened wide, frightened. She didn't look at me. Just shook her head in disappointment and ascended the stairs to her dark little room. I cried for the first time that night. That's how all this began; a night on the streets. Every minute some guy was whistling at me, or taking pity on me, but I never gave in. I wouldn't allow her words to come true. So I lay there in the rain all night. I didn't get a single minute of sleep; just cried for hours until the sun came up.

"Charlotte." Trystan calls pulling me out of my daydream, "you okay? I feel like that's all I've said since I met you."

I gave him a small nod again, and stepped out of the car. It shifts with the weight change, and sort of bounces underneath me. Trystan is waiting at the door. It isn't locked. I didn't even think about locking it when I left. I walk up the driveway; jump the six and a half steps to the door. Trystan, takes my hand and pushes it open lightly.

As I suspected, the place looks no different than it did last night. The couch and fireplace just as cheap and dusty; the stairs I ran down so hurriedly last night looked shaken and creaked, the kitchen, messy. The tiles are dyed deep red in the middle. Crusted water scatters the stove top from where the kettle over boiled and spilled water over its sides.

I hardly look at the house. I keep my eyes locked on Trystan. I watch him sweep his gaze over the different rooms; each one giving off its own memories. The kitchen holds the one of last night, and the many nights before that. Each night of the argument, the shouting, fighting, cursing, drinking and crying.

I can just visualise my mother leaning against the counter with her thin, boney arms crossed over her chest. That all to well known look of hate glazing her eyes, but the tired deep purple bruises underneath them from all the sleepless nights she'd endured through.

My father stands in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the fridge handle for support because he's so drunk he can't even stand up straight. His eyes wander around the different surfaces of the kitchen. They start on the smooth granite of the counter that lies behind my mother's tense body then move to the parted tiled floors; lingers a little bit too long on the clear glass liquor bottles.

This big man, who stands in the middle of the kitchen, this large grotesque man, is such a coward. He can't even look his own wife in the eye. Little does he know that this would be the last time ever laying his eyes on her.

Trystan pulls me away from my thoughts. My hands are still locked on his arm. "What's the one room you feel safest in?" he asked, his voice echoing off the empty house. I have no favourite room, Trystan, I want to say, this entire house is the same; scary, empty, haunted and sends tiny bumps up my arms and shivers down my spine. "My room," I answer being the coward I am, I do not have the guts to say any of this to him.