The devil to pay

"Damn, these pancakes are GOOD!"

"Glen! Watch your language!"

A scowl is being thrown in Paula's direction, just as she turns around and looks at me.

"Ashley, you're not eating too much, are you feeling sick?"

"Uhm, no I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look a little pale, you're not getting a cold, are you?"

If there was something I could do to make Paula stop asking me all these questions, I would do it in a heartbeat. Anything would be better than sitting here at this table, just hours after what happened last night. I'm not even sure I've sobered up, but the hammer inside my head is making it obvious that the alcohol is fading.

I don't think there could be more reasons for why I'm not eating right now.

Did I tell you about the headache? Well, it's not the only sign from the night before.

I'm also nauseous, the bile rising in my throat being desperately kept down. Just one bite of Arthur's famous pancakes wouldn't just make me run for the bathroom, the taste of them would also be tainted forever. Therefore, I do not dare to touch them, only poking at the food on my plate every now and then.

She's sitting here too. We're all seated at the breakfast table, Glen is literally throwing the food into his mouth, effectively gaining 10 pounds by the minute. Arthur is smiling of pride over his successful breakfast while Paula is looking at me with worry in her eyes. The line on her forehead – the one she shares with her daughter – is prominent, her words ones of care. But it is Spencer that has my full attention although she's completely unaware of it.

She's eating like normal, only poking at the bare pancake on her plate. Her actions mirror mine, only difference is that they're used to it. They're used to Spencer's reluctance to eat too much of the unhealthy food. Me on the other hand, usually devour the food like my life depends on it, like I'm never gonna taste the wonderful aroma ever again.

This is why those worried eyes of Paula has landed on me and refuses to leave. I try my best at not meeting them, afraid my eyes are still red and blotchy from all the crying that happened last night. The long-necked sweater I'm wearing only increasing the looks being sent my way.

"You're barely eating anything, you don't have a fever, do you?"

And as the sentence is being voiced out, she reaches across the table to touch my forehead. The action is unwelcomed, head being drawn back from those fingertips only grazing my forehead. I don't want her to touch me, any touch is not welcomed in this instance, in this shame I'm drowning in.

She stares at me surprised, having never received such a rejection to her touch from me before. Sure, I've been reluctant in hugs, hands never leaving my sides as she's embraced me lovingly. But I've never actually refused her touch, her care. I feel all eyes on me, except the eyes I so wish would look upon me.

Arthur has started to mirror Paula's concern, Glen only smiling mischievously – thinking he knows the reason I'm acting the way I am. I'm not paying attention to any of them, knowing none of them has a clue as to what I'm feeling, and why.

Spencer on the other hand, is perfectly aware.

She knows more than any of the others combined, still she's ignoring what's happening at the table. She's not looking up at anyone, only taking wee bits of the pancake into her mouth, chewing slowly but surely. It's like she's oblivious to everyone but herself, her apathetic expression one I've seen many times before. She's no longer open, no longer giving me glimpses into a world unknown.

--


Those hands are drawing patterns on my back, slowly soothing my shaking body, calming my soul. I'm so focused on her touch, on her body pressed into mine that I can't even remember why she's soothing me anymore. I'm sure it will come back to me when she releases her hold on me, but in this moment, all I want is her comfort, her kindness.

I'm not even sure if it's kindness.

How can I know what goes on inside her mind, what if this is all part of one devious plan she's lined up for me?

I can't be. I can never know her for sure, never get inside that mind of hers. But somehow, I'm choosing to ignore these warnings going off inside my head, instead opting to hold on to whatever hope I have of this being real for her too. That this might mean something to this ethereal girl standing before me also.

It hasn't been long, shorter than what I hoped for, but it's expected. I've been excepting it from the minute her arms found their way around me and when it happens, I'm not surprised. When those arms I never imagined would ever touch me stop doing exactly that, I'm disappointed, but not startled.

She's not looking me in the eyes, instead opting to throw her gaze to the ground, to the wooden body that lays beneath us. I wish I had words, I wish I could convey something truthful and important to make her look at me again, make her open up the door to her sacred world even more. Instead, she opts to close it, silently pushing it shut but I can still hear it squeaking, I can still see the open lid slowly closing off.

Her body is drifting further away from me, I don't notice any footsteps being taken as I'm merely observing her retreating form in an unphysical way. It's not before her back hits the entrance to this house that I know this is it, that this is all she's letting me see.

This is the end of tonight, of the tragedy that ended as a mystery.

---

The memory of last night hits me like drops of water cascading down a naked
body of mine. I can feel it anywhere, everywhere. Cold drops of harsh memories flash behind my eyelids, bits and pieces of this night in question pours into me with repeated force. I'm no longer nauseous from the poison pouring out, the nausea replaced and duplicated by the memories pouring in. I cringe openly, not being able to hold the expression of disgust at bay.

"What is it, Ash? You can tell us if you're sick, you don't have to be afraid of telling us, you know."

I'm barely hearing the words as my head starts spinning, faster and faster as my fingertips is the only thing left hanging onto my sanity. Paula is waiting for a reply but I'm not capable of giving one, one finger after another slipping from its hold, slowly but surely leading me into the deep pit of despair. My breathing escalates, and as I'm sure I'm going to hyperventilate or vomit all over this breakfast table, something happens. And I'm not sure how to read it.

"God, will you just leave her alone, Paula?!"

With all the times Glen has saved me, stood up for me, defended me, it would've been expected of him to be the one to do it this time also. But it isn't, his expression a shocked one as he looks to my right.

Her features are hard, edgy as she stares Paula down, daring her to bug me again. I'm no longer breathing heavy, all breath having been knocked out of me by the words uttered from the girl to my right. Mere seconds is all it takes before she's back at poking her pancakes, no longer any trace of her previous defense in her body language. Her features having reinhabited the expression of ignorance, I'm no longer so sure it's a real feeling she's projecting out to us. If it really is ignorance that fills her body in this moment, or if it's something else, something unknown. 'Cause if it really was ignorance, would she then have defended me, would she then have listened in on the conversation taking place, noticed my weakening frame?

The table quiets down and no one's looking at anyone anymore. I'm amazed at the power of Spencer's words, everyone bowing at her command. I, on the other hand, am bowing in gratefulness, not in shock and terror like the others.

As my heart begs my eyes to glance her a look of gratitude, my coward of a head prevents me. All I manage to do is gaze the outline of her face from my peripheral view, noticing her eyebrows lightly knitted together. Minor inches are separating us, her elbow close to mine on the table.

I wish I was brave enough to touch it – to squeeze it lightly in a display of thankfulness – but we all know what I am. We all know that I am the coward. The joke of a human being.

I am reminded of a state of mind where I tried to transgress the lines of my courage. Where I disregarded the alert rooted deep within me, the one telling me to stop, that it wasn't right, it wasn't me.

A state of mind which overtook me not even 24 hours ago, one that sent me in the state of misery I'm currently residing in.

But there's a difference.

The actions taking place last night weren't ones of free will. They were bound by expectations, by wanting to flee from the ache in my heart. I never wanted them for the want in itself. Not like the want that urges me to approach the enigmatic girl to my right.

I know I shouldn't, I know this action I'm soon to be engaging in will not do me any good. Still, I can't help but act on the desire to show her my appreciation. Hand shaking on my thigh – acutely aware of its mission – finally elevates from my body and gravitates toward her.

I wish it was suave – without the trembling clumsiness – but I knew beforehand that that would just be wishful thinking. When my hand does graze hers, it accidentally strokes across her thigh where her hand resides. The trembling increases, I'm unable to look in her direction, afraid to see rejection in her eyes just as much as I fear the rejection in her body language.

And that's what she gives me.

Rejection.

She's not even letting me give her the action I wanted to – to gently squeeze her
hand in a gesture of thankfulness – before she pushes my hand away from her in a harsh manner. If I had been given the time to think it over, to read her reaction in a quiet manner, I might've reacted differently. I might've reacted at all. 'Cause right in this moment, I'm unable to do so as she screeches her chair backwards and stomps out of the room – much like she did during my first dinner in this home.

I'm speechless, afraid any of the others adorning this table saw my role in Spencer's leaving. But it's nothing to the fear that fills me for Spencer herself.

I can't help the urge to just go, to just run away from this table and this situation. And most of all – Spencer. But I'm not. I'm not running, not causing a scene, not doing anything. I'm merely staring off into the hallway that Spencer only seconds ago whiffed past in infuriated hurry.

Again, my attempt at doing something good has been thrown right back into my face.

And I'm not doing it again.