Chapter - 2
I was startled awake by the sound of something heavy plummeting to the ground outside our house. I sat up almost immediately, clutching my chest weakly, panting and lightheaded because of how quickly I'd moved. I didn't dare to look at whatever had fallen so loudly outside the window just yet. As I closed my eyes to regain proper consciousness, my senses seeped back to life.
I finally registered the terrifyingly loud staccato of raindrops thrashing against the walls and windows, almost cruel in how they were beating down on everything they touched. This wasn't anything like the soft, pitter-patter rain I was accustomed to back home that made you want to nuzzle into your blanket and drift into a peaceful slumber.
This was dangerous.
This was rain that jolted you awake, making fear crawl up your limbs.
Trembling a little, I turned my head back meekly, towards the window. A small gasp escaped my lips at the sight, my heartbeat picking up pace.
The raindrops were beating down on the earth with such brute force that I was almost sure they'd cut right through my skin had I been outside. I shivered at the thought. The rain blurred everything outside, restricting my vision entirely. So, I assumed a branch must have fallen from one of the taller trees because of the downpour. I let myself believe that. I did not hold enough courage in my heart currently to investigate further.
Let's keep this as mundane as possible, it's safer that way.
It was dark outside…frighteningly so. I scrambled to find the small switch near the bed, trying to turn my night lamp on. Darkness had always terrorised me.
With a soft click, my room was cast in a faint, amber light. It was too dull to really eradicate the darkness, but sufficient to ease my anxiety. I gazed tiredly at my watch, thrown haphazardly on the edge of my bed.
4:56 A.M.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes lazily. I'd been asleep for over eight hours, yet I felt worse somehow. I felt the exhaustion deep in my bones, as though I'd aged a thousand years. I reclined back into the headboard a little. My soul felt hazy and worn out.
Everything felt like a fever dream - this room, this place. My torturous mind was still ardently holding on to some of the old denial.
There's truly no feeling worse than pitying yourself.
I lay there motionless, too tired to move more than an inch, and too scared to look outside the window again. I wasn't spiralling anymore…I was just sinking. In my thoughts, in myself.
The rain continued to pound viciously against the small house for another half an hour, after which it seemed to lose its virility and slowed down to a drizzle. There was still no trace of morning anywhere, and the darkness seemed to bleed into the ground.
I wriggled out of bed, feeling a little safer now that the torrent and noise died down.
My suitcases were standing awkwardly near the door, still unopened. This was very unlike me, as I usually tend to unpack immediately after reaching home. I can't relax otherwise, and my mind would keep flitting back to the luggage uncomfortably.
I should have probably discussed this strange tendency with my therapist, but oh well.
We were preoccupied with some of my more…alarming tendencies.
This wasn't home, though.
And the little noise in my head that would vex me to organise everything straight away was nowhere to be found. Guess I left that behind, as well.
I bent over and unzipped one of the smaller bags. Burying my hands in the mess, I searched for a black polythene bag. It crunched as soon as I touched it, and I smiled a little at the familiarity of the feeling. Some things never change, I guess.
I retrieved the bag and padded over to my bed again. I carefully unknotted the handles and softly began taking its contents out.
Pouch after pouch of embroidery floss began crowding the space, storing threads of every possible colour. Then came the circular, wooden embroidery frames in different sizes ; and lastly, the small box of about 20 needles of varying lengths.
I was fifteen when my grandmother had first prodded me to learn embroidery.
"If you can paint so well, I can't imagine how well you'd embroider", she had uttered into my hair as she caressed my back. There, sprawled inelegantly across her old lap, I didn't have the heart to tell her that there was absolutely no correlation between being skilled at brushing paint across a canvas and threading needles into tight cloth. She'd grinned at me so cheekily with pleading eyes that I couldn't possibly deny her. We spent the summer hunched together over embroidery frames, her worn hands guiding mine with surprising confidence. She'd tell me stories in between, laughing that laugh I adored so much. That airy chuckle made it all feel worth it. And so, the days drawled on, filled with small lessons, new designs, and the smell of chamomile and old thread.
I cherished every moment of it, and discovered - much to my disdain - that she had been right again.
It didn't take long for my fingers to find a rhythm, arising from somewhere deep inside me. I watched intricate cotton flowers blooming beneath my hands with startling joy. My newfound skill felt instinctual, like it had been waiting for me to discover it.
My grandmother's bizarre correlations were too right too often.
I let out a shaky breath, my heart twisting painfully as I longed for those terribly humid summer days. I wanted to call my grandmother and tell her all about how melancholic I felt, but imagining her face creased with worry stopped me.
I knew she'd call me in the afternoon and I was determined to put myself in a better mood by then.
I already knew what I was going to embroider. I took my time picking out all the right colours, the right needle, and tightened the frame over a piece of rough white cloth. The first stitch made me exhale pleasantly, relieved at how normal this felt.
My fingers moved immediately and effortlessly, each new stitch easing my mind a little and I felt the tension ebb away just slightly.
A few minutes in, my busy fingers froze abruptly. A sudden and unfamiliar discomfort trickled down my throat and chest, and my eyes closed by their own volition…as though they were forcing me to focus on something.
And then, I felt it again, a force trying to pull me back towards the forest.
Tug, tug, tug.
8:15 A.M, La Push
I stared at my recent creation with a strange fondness blossoming within me.
I had embroidered a cluster of Kantuta flowers, exactly like the ones in my grandmother's garden. They drooped downwards, their long bodies a deep fuchsia pink ; and the petals at the bottom, curling inwards, were a lighter shade of the same colour.
They were beautiful.
Well, my plan had worked.
I was feeling a little better, and felt a little more prepared to feign happiness when my grandmother did call.
I had a few hours to kill till then, and I couldn't let this little piece of joy I had mustered melt away.
My mind raced, thinking of other pleasurable activities to engage in. Or just…any activity to distract myself with, and store this little slice of joy safely in the corner of my mind.
I clambered up, wincing a little as my bare feet made contact with the cold floor.
I was bitterly aware of how cold it must be outside. Before falling asleep last evening, I had propped up two heaters on the opposite ends of my room, and they were still burning. My room was toasty, although the floor seemed to have fallen victim to the cold earth. If it was any indication to how frigid it must be outside…I was not looking forward to stepping outside anytime soon.
It was going to take me quite a lot of time to adjust to this temperature, accustomed as I was to the usual 91 degrees back home.
The downpour had finally ceased completely only a little while ago, and a pale, filtered sunlight replaced the darkness.
Although, I wasn't exactly sure if I could call it 'sunlight'.
It was all very grey and foggy…and I LOVED it.
No more sunlight! No more sweating and suffocation!
This time, I did twirl a little.
After marvelling at the tall trees and drifting fog through my window for a brief while, I padded over to my luggage again and retrieved very specific items : my toiletries bag, two towels, my sketchbook and pens, the book I was currently reading, a chocolate bar, and some clothes for the day.
The bathroom was also tiny, much like everything here, but manageable. It had adequate space for everything. I nervously twisted the handle of the tap by the sink, exhaling in relief as warm water ran down. I did the same with the tap in the shower and was relieved again. I didn't know how I would have managed to clean up had the water been freezing.
I took my time cleaning myself, scrubbing my body and hair twice, to rid my skin of the clinging airport smell. To stop my thoughts from spiralling in the shower, I recounted all the U.S states alphabetically (having memorised them recently to not embarrass myself in front of people), and then all the countries and peninsulas in Asia and South America.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face thoroughly, I proceeded to lather on a thick layer of moisturiser all over my body.
Desperate weathers call for desperate measures.
After how horrible I already felt about everything, I was not in the mood to tolerate dry, cracking skin.
The phone rang as I finished moisturising my arms, and I didn't even have to peek at the screen to know exactly who it was.
"Hello?", I muttered into the phone.
"Reenieee~", a voice, almost identical to mine, sang through the device, making me giggle silently.
"Hey, Sol…you're up early today", I muttered contentedly.
"Mama went to Church, you know what that means, ugh!", she grumbled.
That made me laugh audibly. It was routine for Mama to create a ruckus and yell several profanities at us before she leaves for Church. I felt a pang of hurt flash through my chest as I remembered how worked up she would get…and how much I missed it.
"Oh, how I miss you…", I exhaled into the phone, feeling my sister sigh in response.
Marisol was my older sister, chronologically at least. She's a little over one year older than me, but people often comment that we look and behave like twins. Despite her being older, I carry the weight of most responsibilities. She jokingly calls herself the 'younger one in spirit', but I see the gleam of truth hiding in her words. We grew up together with the same parents, in the same household, went to the same school, and yet…we are worlds apart.
She moves with a youthful ease, cheerful and laid-back, someone who is still maturing and unfolding. And then…there was me. Always so still, as if I was perpetually bracing myself for something bad. She comes to me for advice very often, and so does my mother and my close friends.
They say I'm wise, and I wish I could tell them that my supposed 'words of wisdom' are just mental concoctions I was forced to create on how to protect myself from pain.
Sol calls me old, aged, an aunty, even boring, but all in good faith. I know her words don't hold cruelty…or at least that's what I want to believe. I don't deny it.
How could I, anyway? How do I tell her that I am the way I am because I was denied being young, the way she is allowed to be?
I got dressed and munched on the chocolate bar as we spoke. I filled her in on how peculiar everything felt here - the terrifying rain that was so different from the rain we were used to, and described what our house looked like. She was less than impressed. Sol was vehemently against my father taking me away with him to another country. She was quite dependent on me, especially emotionally, and I could tell the separation was more difficult for her.
"You should really go outside, Reenie, or you're going to get all teary and anxious again", she said jokingly, but I picked up on the concern lacing her voice.
"Yeah…um, I guess I should", I whispered quietly.
No sooner had the words left my lips that it struck me again, a little harder this time.
Tug, tug, tug.
10:30 A.M, La Push
Okay, let's do this.
Let's go outside.
Only a little while left to kill till my grandmother calls.
I can do this.
I don't even know anybody, it'll be peaceful.
It's alright.
I whispered these mantras under my breath as I pulled a sweater over my shirt, followed by the new parka Mama had bought me. I twisted the doorknob gingerly, not making a single squeak as I stepped outside. I had to avoid my father at all costs. Seeing him would make me instantly distressed and I can't afford that right now, not before the call.
However, the universe was on my side today.
A yellow sticky-note on the fridge read, "Out. Will return in the evening," in my father's gross handwriting.
"Gracias a dios", I exhaled loudly.
I quickly tied my shoelaces near the front door and muttered a quiet prayer, asking God to be easy on me today. I grabbed the small key nearby and exited the house uncertainly.
Cold, biting air slammed into me immediately, causing a violent shiver to ripple through my body. I grimaced, frozen in place and trembling, summoning courage from the depths of my soul to take another step forward.
I have to get used to this.
I closed the door behind me, deciding with finality that I will survive this walk. I trudged forward awkwardly and with small steps, as that's all my legs were capable of in this cold. I shoved my hands into the thick pockets of the parka, keeping my face turned slightly downwards to avoid the wintry winds.
The reservation was undoubtedly beautiful, an intoxicating blend of different browns and greens. I kept to the dry parts of the ground as much of it was still very wet after the rain.
Silence pressed in from all directions, and I didn't see a single soul for over five minutes. I enjoyed the silence and calm, trying not to look directly into the forest and scare myself all over again. The forest here looked like it was holding secrets.
I eventually reached an area populated by a few houses, all similar in structure and colour.
I noticed a few older women sitting on the porch of one of the houses, conversing and laughing. Knowing full well how ruthless older women can be, I walked over to the other side of the path, avoiding eye contact and shrinking into myself to make myself less noticeable.
It didn't work.
They became very quiet as I passed by them, and I felt more exposed than ever before. I could feel their watchful gaze settle into my bones.
Are they judging me? Do I look strange to them?
Once I was completely out of their line of sight, I puffed out the breath I was holding and slowed down my pace.
I heard the rumbling of the waves well before the salty smell of the ocean hit my nose. I inhaled deeply, completely drunk on how deep and fresh everything smelled. I knew I was nearing the beach as the number of people walking by increased steadily.
The cold bit at my face and fingers, somehow managing to permeate through my clothes and chill my body. I crossed my arms tightly around myself, mostly because of how quickly my anxiety was rising, thrashing against my mind more violently than the waves against the shore.
The staring never stopped.
The Quileutes were apparently a very curious people.
I furtively watched some of them when they weren't looking. They all had similar russet, red-hued skin, which glowed a little even in this dreary lighting. Although I, too, adorned brown skin, mine was quite different from theirs. While theirs was a darker, reddish brown, my complexion was more wheatish.
I hated that there was yet another difference between us.
It surprised me pleasantly when I saw so many boys and men with long hair, cascading down their shoulders and back smoothly. Most of them had it tied up or braided. I thought they looked rather handsome this way.
The women were strikingly beautiful, as well, most of them standing tall and moving with a natural grace.
The trees thinned further and further, and then…the world opened wide.
Dark grey waves roared mightily in the air, thrashing against the rocky shore. The broody sky bled into the ocean, making the horizon almost invisible.
The sight was almost unbelievable.
I gasped a little when I looked down at my feet.
Rocks.
Thousands of them, in so many different colours.
My hands itched to paint the view on a canvas, wanting to preserve this moment forever.
This beach was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.
Ginormous driftwood lay scattered across the vast land, bleached and ancient like fossils.
The wind was colder here, and imagining how freezing the water must be made me shudder.
As I stepped forward hesitatingly in the dark, wet sand, I tried to ignore the prying eyes and hushed whispers being directed my way. Like a coward, I wrapped my arms around myself under the pretence of shielding my body from the cold, when in actuality, I was struggling to relieve some of the trepidation.
I avoided looking at anyone, deluding myself into believing that if I don't acknowledge them, then they must not really be there.
I silently strolled to one of the towering driftwoods in a secluded area on the beach and carefully sat down on the cold, jagged surface. For a few minutes, I simply watched the grey waves roaring dully as they approached the pebbly shore, receding with a loud hiss. My unease ebbed away just slightly with each dying wave.
The beach was full of rocks and stones of different colours. As I reached down timidly to pick a soft lavender pebble, my body suddenly, and agonisingly, constricted in on itself.
I felt like I was being violently strangled, someone pulling at my chest with incredible force.
TUG. TUG. TUG.
I struggled to breathe, gasping for air but also trying not to garner attention my way. The last thing I needed was people to develop an impression of me as the choking-on-anxiety-girl.
Except, this wasn't anxiety.
This was something else entirely.
My knees buckled and I flopped pathetically onto the pebbly surface, squeezing the parka earnestly over my chest, trying to ease the constriction.
TUG. TUG. TUG.
I felt my body temperature dropping at a rapid pace. I fumbled with my sweater pitifully, trying to bury my frozen fingertips in the thick material.
TUG. TUG. TUG.
I stood up unsteadily, still bent over and coughing. It took me a good and embarrassing while to regain my composure and stand upright again.
My whole being was struggling against it…against something. I heard strange whispers echoing in my mind, but couldn't make out anything.
TUG. TUG. TUG.
I leaned on the driftwood for dear life, and my eyes roamed the length of the beach to ensure nobody witnessed…whatever it was that had just come over me.
And that's when my eyes found them.
And that's when absolutely everything changed.
Uh-oh!
What do you think she saw? :P
Hello, again!
First and foremost, I'd like to thank everyone who followed, reviewed, and favourited my story. It means so much to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you~
I thought I'd give you guys more insight into Reen's personality, hobbies, and disturbed state of mind in this chapter. Why do you guys think she feels this strange 'tugging'?
Also let me know what you think of Sol and her father so far!
I really want to write one chapter from Quil's POV before they meet…to sort of explain what he's feeling and his personality a little bit. But I've never written anything from a boy's POV before and that's making me a little apprehensive lol. Would you guys like such a chapter though?
Thank you for reading and stay tuned for the upcoming chapters!
All reviews and texts are appreciated! Lots and lots of love!
Xx :D
