Garden of Sins

Alayna

The loud slam of the front door rouses me from a much too short sleep and dreams that have fucked with my head. Carter and you happily took turns in it, amused at how stupid I am. Then, suddenly, one changed into the other and then again, until the two of you merged and I was completely confused.

With my eyes still closed, I stretch leisurely and wait for your warm hard body to snuggle up to me like it has the last few days because I actually spend every day with you. I wait for the scent that makes my stomach tingle to hit me. I wait for your hoarse voice to whisper in my ear that you are about to fuck me and that I should be quiet when I feel you against my ass.

But there is nothing.

No body.

No smell.

No voice.

No you.

I roll over to the side because I’m used to having a lot of room in your bed, but a dull bang brings me back to reality as I land on the floor and moan in pain. My face is pressed directly into the ancient carpet that smells of dust and decay, and I vomit.

I moan again. “Fuck,” I whisper before bracing myself and stand up awkwardly. Tired, I blink and rub my face, hissing because I forgot that my cheekbone is bruised.

“Shit,” I murmur and leave my room to use the bathroom next door. Mom freaked out yesterday. Dad didn’t react to her outbursts, as usual, so she came up and unloaded her frustration on me, as usual. She told me I wasn’t a princess, that there was no one to save me, and just because I get fucked, I shouldn’t believe that I will ever mean anything to anyone. She said I shouldn’t feel like I was better and that I am just one of many holes for you. But I let all of it bounce off my wall.

Drowsy, I stagger into the bathroom, ignoring the yellow discoloration of the sink and the stinking toilet. God, I hate it here and think wistfully about the huge bathtub’s whirlpool function on the floor below your room and the huge shower on the ground floor, where there is even room for three, with showerheads on all sides and a rainforest function. And about you in said shower, how you touch me as the water splashes over us. Above all else, I think about the cleanliness! Oh, my God, and the smell of breakfast and bitchy Ava, who screams and jumps around like a Superball, but has a pure heart — like your entire family. I think about Mr. Mason Rush sitting at the breakfast table, constantly watching his wife, and how he pats her ass every now and then when his daughter isn’t looking. He doesn’t care much for you and Carter in that respect. I think about the distinctly hungover Carter, grumpy with crossed arms and a gloomy expression, with eyes he can barely keep open, sitting in the bright sunshine, moaning at everything he sees. Especially me.

And you, Caden, sitting next to me, putting one arm over the back of my chair and playing with my hair, and how relaxed I am. I think of the peace I feel when you are near. I think of Emilia when she puts fresh, heavenly-smelling pancakes with chocolate sauce on my plate and smiles warmly at me, asking me how I slept and what my plan is for the rest of the day. She even knows when I have to work. And I think of your amusement when I mess up all my appointments for the day and then you tell me when they really are because you simply remember everything and I remember nothing. Because I am chaos and you are my harbor of peace.

I glance in the mirror and as I feel my cheek, I recall the last time my mother asked me how I slept and the last time my dad smiled at her. I know the answer and it is shocking.

I carefully wash my face and brush my teeth after grabbing the toothbrush from the cosmetic bag that was in my suitcase.

Nervously, I tie my hair back. I haven’t been to the hairdresser in what feels like an eternity. My color just grew out, although, it looks like it is on purpose — the so modern balayage. Actually, I can’t afford to dye the roots so I’ve been growing it out for over a year now.

Well, you can have balayage that way too, you just need patience and no money. Voilà.

I quickly slip on something from my suitcase and glance at my cell phone. No messages, no calls. I don’t like it. But, you believe I have a visitor right now and I’m busy with my perfect life, which I play for you. I hope your dad doesn’t tell you where he let me out and how lewdly my mom stared at him.

You believe I have many friends. You think I have a full life and I’m always shopping, going to the movies, and drinking coffee, but the pictures I post to make people think so are either old or googled. I know it’s pathetic, but I don’t want my fellow students and the man I’m crazy about to see how fucked up I really am. That’s why I’m always available if you want to go to a party or di

I hide my cell phone under the floorboards again because it is better to be safe than sorry even though I know my mom is not around. Not only because of the slamming front door – Dad doesn’t leave the house – but also because of the cheap perfume smell that hovers in the air. Dad doesn’t need to leave because the drugstore I told Mr. Keaton Rush about doesn’t exist anymore. He went bankrupt, so I give any money left over after I pay tuition to my parents.

Mom is probably back on a fuck tour. When she finds someone better than my father, she’s gone and he vegetates. I’m afraid for him, but when I think about it, I drive myself crazy, so I prefer to repress it all the time.

I notice when I come downstairs, he is sitting in front of the television again. My father is actually an attractive man, at least, he used to be until everything fell apart. No one is attractive anymore when they have let themselves go for years. His dark hair is thi

I walk past him and greet him with a kiss on the cheek, but as usual, he does not react. Most of the time, I save the greeting because it hurts when he doesn’t react. No wall in the world can protect the heart no matter how thick it is.

I decide to tidy up the kitchen and make breakfast. I mix up the few food items that I find that are not rotten for an omelet. While I wait for the pan I rinsed to get hot, I wash the dishes because they are piled high. Then I prepare the food and wipe the counter. However, the layer of grease has become so imbedded in the cracks it will probably never come out again. At some point, I give up and put the clean dishes into the dirty cupboards. There used to be pictures of Jamie and me hanging on the fridge. There was always freshly squeezed orange juice inside the refrigerator because Mom always wanted us to fill up on vitamins and every Saturday, Dad puttered in the garden and tinkered with cars while Jamie sat in the garage with his legs bouncing, watching him, and sometimes, they even played football. Dad always let him win just to make him happy. And when Mom went shopping, she always brought us something back. Now I’m glad when she keeps her panties on outside or even wears them correctly, or doesn’t come home drunk as a skunk and puke all over the place.

I bring my father a plate. I lost my appetite when I trampled a cockroach in the kitchen. I sit down next to Dad. He has his forearms resting on his thighs and is still wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, his eyes fixated on a documentary about fish on the TV. I know that shit usually doesn’t interest him.