(3) Bleeding for the Past
Philip played with Chloe's now shoulder-length hair, twisting it into ringlets with his index finger then gently stroking her arm with his opposite hand. He lay on Chloe's mattress as she sat on the floor in front of him, binders and textbooks spread across the tan carpet.
"I cannot believe you let your mom cut your hair," Philip told her. "It looked so beautiful down to your hips. Kind of royal and sophisticated, you know?"
"I happen to like my hair shorter, Philip," Chloe rebutted. The fact that she had lied to him about her hair earlier in the day nagged at her slightly.
Her mother hadn't taken to the sight of her short haircut easily. Nancy had yelled for an hour, telling Chloe how her long hair had given her "identity" and "uniqueness." Chloe had stood there silently, knowing that her shorter hair somehow dispelled a new optimism for her.
"It's a Saturday night," Philip informed Chloe. "Homework is reserved for late Sunday evenings."
Chloe shrugged insouciantly. "I like getting it done early, especially this History assignment," she said, pushing a library book beside Philip. "Look at it. It's about the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. It's actually quite interesting. There was this death camp called Auschwitz that the Jewish prisoners were taken to, although they didn't know what the Nazis were planning. But in the camp, they were basically prepared for their own dea--"
"How can you be interested in that junk?" Philip interrupted her. He flipped through several pages in the book she had tossed him. "These people look sickly, that's all."
"Sickly?" Chloe almost cried out to Philip's ignorance. "They were persecuted for their religion, persecuted because they were a prosperous people. They were persecuted for no good reason, really. And at what cost." She stole the book from Philip's hands.
He chuckled lightly and covered Chloe's bare shoulders with his callused hands. "That's all History class diatribe," he told her. "I don't see why we have to learn so much about the past. What's done is done and there's nothing we can do to change anything."
Chloe's heart stung with Philip's comment as she forced images of her foster parents slapping and screaming at each other, nails vehemently cutting into her own cheek. She reached a delicate hand to the fleshy part of her face and stared into empty space.
"Chloe? What's wrong?" Philip softly called to her.
"Oh," Chloe replied, startled and remembering that Philip was still in her room lying on her bed. "Nothing. I was just thinking about some things."
"What kind of things? Memories?" he questioned her. He realized his wisecrack about the wounds of the past never being healed had struck Chloe inside. "Baby, please tell me what's wrong." He pulled at her hand and Chloe left her books to compliantly sit beside Philip on the bed.
"It's just these horrible memories I have of the people whom I've had to live with over the past years. It was my way of life for as long as I could remember, Philip." Chloe's hands grasped for each other as she struggled with the words. "Now here I am in this cozy house, with Craig and Nancy. I have food on my plate, people who ask how me I am when I suddenly grow silent, locks on my doors in case..."
"In case what?" Philip pushed Chloe, intrigued.
Chloe shook her head and offered her boyfriend a counterfeit smile. "Just in case, you know, I want privacy with the one I truly care for." She planted a tender kiss on Philip's lips.
"Chloe," Philip whispered into her ear. "I love you so much."
She smiled again, this time happily. But for some reason, she could not give him the same response. Instead, she kissed him again ardently, pushing away the memories that threatened tears to fall from her eyes. She had promised herself never to shed tears for that life of hers ever again.
Philip responded with the same passion, moving his lips down Chloe's neck and pushing the straps of her tank top off her shoulders. His lips moved down her smooth arms and back up again to her face, kissing her lips, cheeks, and jugular. His hands impulsively moved over her hips as he pushed her body further down onto the mattress, not thinking rationally and letting the sensual ambience between the two of them control his actions.
Chloe, not quick enough to realize the change in Philip's usually proper conduct, let her body move with his. Their legs became entwined as her hands reached up to cup his heated face in her fingers. She felt his hands on her waist, moving down to her hips, then to her inner thighs.
"We have to stop," Chloe told Philip in between kisses. "We can't do this."
Philip seemed to take no notice of her words as his hands roamed around the most feminine areas of her body. "Chloe," he moaned into her ear. "I want you. Please, Chloe. I love you."
She still couldn't force herself to say it back to him, nor could she allow herself to carry out the act that he wanted from her. The situation played in her mind as she recalled last Saturday night, when Philip's raw lips crushed hers like today as he pleaded from her the same answer.
"Philip," Chloe cried out in a hoarse whisper. "I can't do this!" She intuitively pushed her hands against his solid chest and forced him to give space between her body and his.
He stared at her with bewildered boyish eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought that you wanted--"
"I could never want this, Philip!" she screamed at him. "Never! I can't... I just can't, Philip." Her body was suddenly wracked with sobs and shivers, her spine bent to let her head fall to her knees as she wept dry tears.
"Shh..." Philip comforted her. He put his arms around her neck and pressed his forehead against hers. "Tell me what's wrong, Chloe. Did something happen to you? Please, tell me what's wrong."
Chloe could only shake her head and lower her eyes from Philip's innocent gaze. She knew that she would never be able to tell him that she couldn't be with anyone intimately--not ever. Not after Mark had stolen something from her years ago. She would never be able to forget the pain and humiliation of Mark's breath on her hair. And no one would ever be able to change that.
The apartment was yet again unlit and quiet, just the atmosphere Brady embraced with open arms. His father, stepmother, and sister were snug in bed with their sugar dumpling dreams. He walked through the moonlit rooms and found himself in his father's study. Inquisitive fingers dragged over the ignored books on the dusty shelf beside the tall windows of the room. His shaky hand automatically reached for a familiar book, a photo album of him as a child.
Brady carried the leather-bound album to his father's tiny desk, turning on a diminutive desk lamp. Painstakingly, he flipped through the first few pages of the album, noting the short poem on the first page:
Mother and Son
Angel of God, my guardian dear
For whom God's love commits me here
Ever this day, be at my side
To love and guard, rule and guide
A frail smile crossed Brady's lips as his fingers traced the fancy calligraphy lettering and then proceeded to turn the page. His eyes rested on a picture of his mother who was laughing with a three-year-old toddler complete with sandy blonde hair and rose-coloured cheeks; the two of them were playing in a small jungle gym.
He wished he had known her better, not just through aging sepia-toned photographs that lied about his mother's suffering and illness. He wished she had seen him grow up for a few more years. Just a few more years and she could have mended his missing swings in baseball, his choking cries in swimming class, and his cracked notes in choir class. But her presence at those events failed to ensue as he became the dunce in the corner, always acting out when kids asked him where his mom was as their own mothers came by to pick them up after school.
Then there was St. George's Academy. Brady almost laughed to himself when he tried to remember the haughty voices of the boys who attended the school with him. For once he had had something in common with people his age; they, too, had been neglected by their own parents and had been sent away to boarding school as to not be a nuisance at home. Brady connected with the boys there for they, too, had no mother to come to them when they awoke from nightmares in the middle of night.
He continued to flip through the book. His eyes once again rested on a photo of him and his mother laughing together. She was raising him in the air with her hands and his face was stretched into a wide grin. His eyes were closed and his arms were flailing. Brady remembered the feeling that he had had when the picture was taken. He had felt as if he were flying, flying so high and looking down at his mother on earth. She'd look so tiny the higher he flew, but she'd always have her arms open, waiting to catch him when he was ready to land.
Brady slammed the photo album shut and pushed it back into its place on the bookshelf. He didn't want to look at anymore pictures tonight. He didn't want to hurt anymore; he was older now. Chloe had dared to call him an "almost adult." He was a full adult now, not "almost." He was older than she was, at least, and she would never understand why he felt so compelled to defend himself against the accusation that he was anything less than a man.
"Brady, what are you doing skulking around in the dark?"
Frightened, Brady turned around to find Belle standing timidly at the door of the study. She looked so young in her powder blue pajamas; it was hard to convince himself that she was Chloe's age and that he was merely two years their senior.
"I'm just doing some research," he lied to her, biting his lip.
"Sure, Brady," she told him with a yawn. She casually walked towards him and then turned to look at the books on the shelf which he was standing beside. "How could you possibly be researching for something using these old photo albums?"
"Researching, recollecting--same thing," he explained. He pointed at the clock on the desk. "It's midnight, Belle. You should be sleeping. We mustn't forget Marlena's strict rules about waking up early on Sundays. We wouldn't want to be late for church, God forbid."
"Brady," Belle scolded her older brother.
"Oops." He held a finger to his lips mockingly, then said quietly, "Marlena might hear me taking His name in vain."
Belle threw her hands up into the air. "I don't know why I even bother with you, Brady. I know you'd never come with us on Sundays. Chloe was right about you; you're a stubborn mule who would never sacrifice his bad boy attitude to join his family for one day at church. Who knows? It could probably do you some good." Belle tossed her brother a wearied glance and headed for her bedroom.
"Chloe said I was stubborn, did she?" Brady murmered to himself. "I guess I'll just have to prove her wrong." He stared out the window of the study and into the night sky. He spoke to an invisible force. "The little boy who you damned so long ago will be paying Your house a little visit tomorrow."
With that, Brady forced himself away from the window, away from his father's study, away from the aging sepia-toned photographs that proved a weakness in his confident stride up the staircase into his bedroom.
(smallfries@muted.com)
Philip played with Chloe's now shoulder-length hair, twisting it into ringlets with his index finger then gently stroking her arm with his opposite hand. He lay on Chloe's mattress as she sat on the floor in front of him, binders and textbooks spread across the tan carpet.
"I cannot believe you let your mom cut your hair," Philip told her. "It looked so beautiful down to your hips. Kind of royal and sophisticated, you know?"
"I happen to like my hair shorter, Philip," Chloe rebutted. The fact that she had lied to him about her hair earlier in the day nagged at her slightly.
Her mother hadn't taken to the sight of her short haircut easily. Nancy had yelled for an hour, telling Chloe how her long hair had given her "identity" and "uniqueness." Chloe had stood there silently, knowing that her shorter hair somehow dispelled a new optimism for her.
"It's a Saturday night," Philip informed Chloe. "Homework is reserved for late Sunday evenings."
Chloe shrugged insouciantly. "I like getting it done early, especially this History assignment," she said, pushing a library book beside Philip. "Look at it. It's about the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. It's actually quite interesting. There was this death camp called Auschwitz that the Jewish prisoners were taken to, although they didn't know what the Nazis were planning. But in the camp, they were basically prepared for their own dea--"
"How can you be interested in that junk?" Philip interrupted her. He flipped through several pages in the book she had tossed him. "These people look sickly, that's all."
"Sickly?" Chloe almost cried out to Philip's ignorance. "They were persecuted for their religion, persecuted because they were a prosperous people. They were persecuted for no good reason, really. And at what cost." She stole the book from Philip's hands.
He chuckled lightly and covered Chloe's bare shoulders with his callused hands. "That's all History class diatribe," he told her. "I don't see why we have to learn so much about the past. What's done is done and there's nothing we can do to change anything."
Chloe's heart stung with Philip's comment as she forced images of her foster parents slapping and screaming at each other, nails vehemently cutting into her own cheek. She reached a delicate hand to the fleshy part of her face and stared into empty space.
"Chloe? What's wrong?" Philip softly called to her.
"Oh," Chloe replied, startled and remembering that Philip was still in her room lying on her bed. "Nothing. I was just thinking about some things."
"What kind of things? Memories?" he questioned her. He realized his wisecrack about the wounds of the past never being healed had struck Chloe inside. "Baby, please tell me what's wrong." He pulled at her hand and Chloe left her books to compliantly sit beside Philip on the bed.
"It's just these horrible memories I have of the people whom I've had to live with over the past years. It was my way of life for as long as I could remember, Philip." Chloe's hands grasped for each other as she struggled with the words. "Now here I am in this cozy house, with Craig and Nancy. I have food on my plate, people who ask how me I am when I suddenly grow silent, locks on my doors in case..."
"In case what?" Philip pushed Chloe, intrigued.
Chloe shook her head and offered her boyfriend a counterfeit smile. "Just in case, you know, I want privacy with the one I truly care for." She planted a tender kiss on Philip's lips.
"Chloe," Philip whispered into her ear. "I love you so much."
She smiled again, this time happily. But for some reason, she could not give him the same response. Instead, she kissed him again ardently, pushing away the memories that threatened tears to fall from her eyes. She had promised herself never to shed tears for that life of hers ever again.
Philip responded with the same passion, moving his lips down Chloe's neck and pushing the straps of her tank top off her shoulders. His lips moved down her smooth arms and back up again to her face, kissing her lips, cheeks, and jugular. His hands impulsively moved over her hips as he pushed her body further down onto the mattress, not thinking rationally and letting the sensual ambience between the two of them control his actions.
Chloe, not quick enough to realize the change in Philip's usually proper conduct, let her body move with his. Their legs became entwined as her hands reached up to cup his heated face in her fingers. She felt his hands on her waist, moving down to her hips, then to her inner thighs.
"We have to stop," Chloe told Philip in between kisses. "We can't do this."
Philip seemed to take no notice of her words as his hands roamed around the most feminine areas of her body. "Chloe," he moaned into her ear. "I want you. Please, Chloe. I love you."
She still couldn't force herself to say it back to him, nor could she allow herself to carry out the act that he wanted from her. The situation played in her mind as she recalled last Saturday night, when Philip's raw lips crushed hers like today as he pleaded from her the same answer.
"Philip," Chloe cried out in a hoarse whisper. "I can't do this!" She intuitively pushed her hands against his solid chest and forced him to give space between her body and his.
He stared at her with bewildered boyish eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought that you wanted--"
"I could never want this, Philip!" she screamed at him. "Never! I can't... I just can't, Philip." Her body was suddenly wracked with sobs and shivers, her spine bent to let her head fall to her knees as she wept dry tears.
"Shh..." Philip comforted her. He put his arms around her neck and pressed his forehead against hers. "Tell me what's wrong, Chloe. Did something happen to you? Please, tell me what's wrong."
Chloe could only shake her head and lower her eyes from Philip's innocent gaze. She knew that she would never be able to tell him that she couldn't be with anyone intimately--not ever. Not after Mark had stolen something from her years ago. She would never be able to forget the pain and humiliation of Mark's breath on her hair. And no one would ever be able to change that.
The apartment was yet again unlit and quiet, just the atmosphere Brady embraced with open arms. His father, stepmother, and sister were snug in bed with their sugar dumpling dreams. He walked through the moonlit rooms and found himself in his father's study. Inquisitive fingers dragged over the ignored books on the dusty shelf beside the tall windows of the room. His shaky hand automatically reached for a familiar book, a photo album of him as a child.
Brady carried the leather-bound album to his father's tiny desk, turning on a diminutive desk lamp. Painstakingly, he flipped through the first few pages of the album, noting the short poem on the first page:
Mother and Son
Angel of God, my guardian dear
For whom God's love commits me here
Ever this day, be at my side
To love and guard, rule and guide
A frail smile crossed Brady's lips as his fingers traced the fancy calligraphy lettering and then proceeded to turn the page. His eyes rested on a picture of his mother who was laughing with a three-year-old toddler complete with sandy blonde hair and rose-coloured cheeks; the two of them were playing in a small jungle gym.
He wished he had known her better, not just through aging sepia-toned photographs that lied about his mother's suffering and illness. He wished she had seen him grow up for a few more years. Just a few more years and she could have mended his missing swings in baseball, his choking cries in swimming class, and his cracked notes in choir class. But her presence at those events failed to ensue as he became the dunce in the corner, always acting out when kids asked him where his mom was as their own mothers came by to pick them up after school.
Then there was St. George's Academy. Brady almost laughed to himself when he tried to remember the haughty voices of the boys who attended the school with him. For once he had had something in common with people his age; they, too, had been neglected by their own parents and had been sent away to boarding school as to not be a nuisance at home. Brady connected with the boys there for they, too, had no mother to come to them when they awoke from nightmares in the middle of night.
He continued to flip through the book. His eyes once again rested on a photo of him and his mother laughing together. She was raising him in the air with her hands and his face was stretched into a wide grin. His eyes were closed and his arms were flailing. Brady remembered the feeling that he had had when the picture was taken. He had felt as if he were flying, flying so high and looking down at his mother on earth. She'd look so tiny the higher he flew, but she'd always have her arms open, waiting to catch him when he was ready to land.
Brady slammed the photo album shut and pushed it back into its place on the bookshelf. He didn't want to look at anymore pictures tonight. He didn't want to hurt anymore; he was older now. Chloe had dared to call him an "almost adult." He was a full adult now, not "almost." He was older than she was, at least, and she would never understand why he felt so compelled to defend himself against the accusation that he was anything less than a man.
"Brady, what are you doing skulking around in the dark?"
Frightened, Brady turned around to find Belle standing timidly at the door of the study. She looked so young in her powder blue pajamas; it was hard to convince himself that she was Chloe's age and that he was merely two years their senior.
"I'm just doing some research," he lied to her, biting his lip.
"Sure, Brady," she told him with a yawn. She casually walked towards him and then turned to look at the books on the shelf which he was standing beside. "How could you possibly be researching for something using these old photo albums?"
"Researching, recollecting--same thing," he explained. He pointed at the clock on the desk. "It's midnight, Belle. You should be sleeping. We mustn't forget Marlena's strict rules about waking up early on Sundays. We wouldn't want to be late for church, God forbid."
"Brady," Belle scolded her older brother.
"Oops." He held a finger to his lips mockingly, then said quietly, "Marlena might hear me taking His name in vain."
Belle threw her hands up into the air. "I don't know why I even bother with you, Brady. I know you'd never come with us on Sundays. Chloe was right about you; you're a stubborn mule who would never sacrifice his bad boy attitude to join his family for one day at church. Who knows? It could probably do you some good." Belle tossed her brother a wearied glance and headed for her bedroom.
"Chloe said I was stubborn, did she?" Brady murmered to himself. "I guess I'll just have to prove her wrong." He stared out the window of the study and into the night sky. He spoke to an invisible force. "The little boy who you damned so long ago will be paying Your house a little visit tomorrow."
With that, Brady forced himself away from the window, away from his father's study, away from the aging sepia-toned photographs that proved a weakness in his confident stride up the staircase into his bedroom.
(smallfries@muted.com)