The Darkness Within Page 11

  “Give me my diary, assface!” I bite back with rage fueling my false bravery.

  “Assface?!” he laughs, “Ladies and Gentlemen, she actually has a backbone!”

  “Right, let me get this straight,” I say on a long sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb, “you would actually prefer me to be like her back there? That would make me more socially acceptable?”

  “Your brother being a rapist is what makes you socially unacceptable!” he argues while Mercy silently observes the whole argument playing out in front of her with obvious glee.

  “Spare me, Bowie!” I walk right up to him so I’m all in his face, “You were a butthole to me before Grant was accused of rape! So, admit it, I’m too nice or too indifferent to be liked by any of the miscreants you and Matt hang out with, aren’t I?”

  He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, “Maybe, kind of like you from this angle though,” he smirks, “can see right down your tank top.” His eyes travel over the top of my t-shirt so openly I automatically turn away from him. “Nice rack Fridge, pity no one else gets to see them.”

  “You’re disgusting!” I spit out with irritation. “I don’t know why most of the female population in this school wanna shack up with you. I can only conclude they’re either ridiculously stupid or self-loathing.”

  “Maybe it’s because I have a big schlong!” he makes a rude gesture over his groin before leaning in closer so that we’re barely millimeters apart. “Millie Thomas,” he whispers, “I can see those tight little buds through your top!” I look down, then snap my arms over myself in both horror and embarrassment.

  He chuckles like I would imagine Satan to laugh, before turning away and waltzing off in his casual, self-loving walk, high-fiving a few of his subjects as he meanders through the crowd of students now heading to class.

  “Well, my friend, you two certainly have some sexual tension going on there,” Mercy says as I pick up my bag, still in a fiery rage. That comment earns her a death glare that could stop the Trojan army, or so my brother used to tell me. Mercy, on the other hand, just finds it all the more amusing.

  Chapter 9

  Amelia

  The end is within my grasp and so far, I’ve managed to stay clear of my archnemesis, Matt and his ridiculously jealous girlfriend, as well as Melody Carpenter. My distancing from Matt isn’t personal, it’s self-preservation. I just want to stay undetected and hit the summer vacation without further incident, as well as focus all my attention on my brother.

  Although, to be honest, I’m feeling rather impotent over the whole court case, especially since Grant has requested that I don’t take the stand, claiming he doesn’t want to put me through it. Given my age, I don’t think many people argued with his decision, only me. I can’t help feeling like it’s a sign that he’s given up all hope. Even snooty Mr Simpson has recommended he plead guilty in the hopes of getting a lesser sentence. Fortunately, Grant is refusing point blank to admit he attacked and raped his girlfriend, something I can’t help but feel proud of him for.

  My despondent thoughts are interrupted by someone thumping repeatedly on my door, prompting me to stop making breakfast and go and answer it. I’m half contemplating blowing the last day altogether and finishing on a semi-high. Mercy never attends the last day of school and practically begged me to go to the beach before the crowds descend on them tomorrow and for every day after until school begins again. I don’t know, maybe, but hiding out here sounds just as appealing.

  I open the door to see a gangly-looking boy, probably not much older than me, wearing a delivery uniform, and holding out a large bunch of white lilies. He looks almost apologetic for having to deliver these flowers, which only makes me feel anxious.

  “Miss Amelia Thomas?” he asks, and I nod. “These are for you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He pushes them towards me, and I reluctantly take them, all the while looking at him with confusion and a touch of suspicion. He eyes the small card hanging from the side of the wrapping, hinting as to what they’re here for. It must be obvious I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

  Carefully, and with trepidation, I take the card and turn it over to read the typed, scripted letters, on the plain white background: R.I.P. Grant Thomas. Initially, I look at the boy so coldly he stumbles back, looking terrified that I’m about to go Rambo on him. But all I can focus on is how hard my heart is thumping, and the fact tears are now stinging my eyes and threatening to fall at any given second.

  “Can I ask who they’re from?” I finally manage to ask, just as he shoves an electronic device under my nose.

  “Er…Bowie Phillips?” he replies, looking down at his clipboard. “Ordered them last night. Huh? That’s weird, says here I’m to repeat this order every Friday.”

  The poor boy tries to look for some sort of further explanation on the paperwork, but I already have one, it’s the day of Grant’s court case next week.

  “Can you take them back, please? I don’t want them!” I say matter of factly and hold them back out towards him.

  He looks both confused and horrified by such a notion, as though this has never happened in the history of floristry deliveries. He begins to fluster, looking over the magical clipboard of answers, trying to see if the flowers will self-combust if he lets me return them.

  “Gee, I don’t know, no one has ever asked that before,” he stumbles over his words, and I kind of feel bad for him, so in the end, I tell him not to worry and keep hold of them. I think I’ve decided to go to school after all.

  Usually, when I enter this stifling little hallway, I keep my head down and try to avoid certain individuals at all costs, but not today! Today, I’m determined and ready to face Bowie with as much venom as I can muster. I march down the insidious corridor with my head held high and the flowers gripped tightly inside of my fist.

  Unsurprisingly, the bastard is clearly expecting me, seeing as he’s leaning smugly against my locker like the cat who got the cream. I automatically narrow my eyes in anger, then shove the flowers roughly into his chest, with so much force they crumple in the space between us. He makes no attempt to take them, instead he lets them fall to the floor in a mess of petals and pollen. He clicks his tongue and I mentally prepare myself for his personal attack, whatever he decides it’s going to be today.

  “Keep your flowers, Bowie!” I say calmly, but with a clear don’t-fuck-with-me-today tone of voice. “I don’t want anything from you, you make me sick!”

  “Tsk, tsk, Fridge. Is that any way to thank a guy for flowers? As for making you feel sick?” I watch as he pushes away from the wall of lockers, raising his brows towards his hairline, as though shocked by my statement. “How do you think I feel having to see your face every day?”

  “How original, Bowie, have you ever considered just leaving me alone if I turn you off that much? Trust me, I’d have zero problems with that. I’d even help you.” I retort, even if I am secretly shriveling up inside over his hurtful words.

  “See, I can’t do that Fridge, knowing your brother raped my sister, knowing my sister has had to move away because she can’t stand being around this place after what he did to her.” I watch as his smirk turns dark and angry, making me swallow hard underneath his murderous looking gaze. “Can’t wait for next Friday. I want to look into the eyes of that asshole when he gets sent down for rape!”

  Before I can even find the words to argue back, he shoves past me, knocking into my shoulder aggressively and stomping away down the hall. As usual, it feels like hundreds of pairs of eyes are on me, watching as I kneel to pick up the trampled flowers. However, I decide to ignore the sheep and their judgmental gaze and instead look at the mess of leaves in my hands, feeling guilty for wasting such beautiful flowers. Eventually, having no other choice, I put them gently inside of the bin.

  I should have stayed at home.

  That evening is another shocker for me, being that my parents come home for dinner, though it’s another
silent affair with tension and sadness hanging in the stagnant air. I no longer attempt to fill the wordless atmosphere with useless conversation, instead, I find myself staring at the empty chair in front of me. I keep hoping to see Grant miraculously appear inside of it, for all of this to melt away and be nothing more than a bad dream.

  “Sweetheart?” My father’s voice startles me from my reverie but for once, I’m actually thankful for it. “You won’t be going to court next week.”

  “What?!” I cry out angrily, “Why the hell not?”

  “Your father and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see all that. Grant has said you are not to take the stand, that they can use your written statement instead. It’s going to be very unpleasant, Millie,” my mother says softly, with extra lashings of patronizing smiles.

  “Oh, well here’s me thinking it’s going to be rainbows and unicorns!” I bite back sarcastically. “He’s my brother! I want to support him!” I slap my hand on the table in frustration. “Someone needs to!”

  “Enough Amelia!” Dad growls, suddenly becoming authoritarian after weeks of not being here. “Your mother and I will be there for him.”

  “Waiting to send him down and publicly disown him! To admit to the world that you think he’s guilty!” I argue with little to no respect because, let’s face it, neither of them has shown an ounce of it when it comes to me or Grant.

  “Gabe is going to be there,” my mother tries to placate me.

  Gabriel Harrison, or Gabe, as he is affectionately known, is one of Grant’s best friends from an out-of-state football camp he’s been going to every year since he was ten. Last year was the first year neither of them went, arguing they were much too old for it. However, they are still close and spent a few weeks at a cabin near Green Bay. It’s a shame he lives so far away because he’s a really good friend and has always been cool with me.

  “But I can’t?!” I stand suddenly, far too incensed to sit with these people who have the audacity to call themselves parents.

  “No!” Dad replies firmly before stuffing more steak into his obnoxious mouth.

  I stand, fixed in outraged shock over the man with blood and flesh rolling around his mouth, refusing to even look at me. At this moment, I hate him. My mother, as usual, says nothing, just smiles anxiously before returning to her own meal without further comment. Knowing they won’t bother to follow me, I storm off to my room, leaving my half-eaten dinner to fester on the side of the table.

  I’m so sick of fighting with everyone and getting absolutely nowhere but rock bottom with nothing but crushed flowers, dwindled pride, and a damn leaflet for inserting a tampon, on top of me. I could quite happily go and dig a big hole in the yard and jump in it, let the worms eat me alive; it would certainly hurt less than having to wade through all of this. Neither of my parents have considered the fact that if Grant goes down, I don’t know when I will ever see him again. All they’re worried about are their precious reputation and careers, not the fact that both of their children are deeply lost right now. It hurts so bad all I can do is cry, though it doesn’t make it any less hopeless.

  The week leading up to the court case flies by and it feels like a race to Grant’s impending death sentence. By the time I wake up, Mom and Dad have already left, with not so much as a note to say they’ll see me later. They didn’t even take the card I had asked them to give him, for it’s still lying on the kitchen counter, sad and impotent, without any purpose other than to taunt me with the hopelessness of the situation.

  My stomach is a twist of knots and butterflies and I can’t even begin to think about food, so instead, I stare into space where an extremely old family portrait hangs on the white wall behind it. My parents are looking at us with smiles and pride, and I begin to wonder how far back the fakery of their affection reaches. In the end, it matters very little. I hate them right now and the thought of spending the summer alone makes me feel ecstatically glad they won’t be here.

  Both have a series of trips planned over the summer, no doubt with other people, so I’ll pretty much have the place to myself. They’ve asked Matt’s parents to keep an eye on me. Seeing as I’ll be sixteen in a few weeks and I’m already used to living without them, I guess they’ve at least done me a favor by not forcing me to go and stay with family elsewhere.

  The doorbell chimes after I finally managed to change the batteries (it’s only taken a year for someone to bother to do it) so I slide off the stool to walk to the door with very little enthusiasm. It’s the florist delivery guy with another bunch of lilies and the same handwritten message, except this time Bowie’s added ‘Judgement Day!’

  I sigh heavily before bursting into a torrent of tears that takes me by surprise, causing the poor boy to run his hand anxiously across his hair, then look beseechingly over to his van.

  “Sorry,” I sob, “it’s nothing you’ve done. Where do I sign?” I ask and he shoves the electronic device under my nose again, waiting for me to sign for my very own form of torture.

  “Thanks,” he mutters apologetically, and I can tell he wants to run but also feels bad for leaving me in such a state. “Are you going to be ok?”

  “Who the hell knows?” I shrug, “Who the hell cares?”

  I try to giggle but end up gasping in shock when he awkwardly places his arms around my shoulders to comfort me. Eventually I kind of pat him back, giving him permission to end the uncomfortable embrace, which he takes and shuffles away, leaving me with a look of deep pity instead.

  “Honestly,” I wave a hand in front of me, “I’m fine. Thank you though, you’re sweet.”

  The guy blushes, nods, and walks quickly back to his van. He proceeds to drive away with the tires screeching on the tarmac as he desperately races to get away from the blubbering mess. Meanwhile, I walk back inside and place the flowers into a vase of water, before putting them on the coffee table where the sun hits it for most of the day. What’s the point in throwing something so beautiful away? Besides, it feels like I’m flipping Bowie the bird by not letting them get to me.

  The minutes tick by slowly, particularly as I know nothing about what’s going on. It is likely there will be no verdict today but being kept in the dark is beginning to eat away at my sanity. Mercy comes over at lunchtime and tries to keep me laughing with her ridiculous anecdotes of her crazy boy shenanigans but even she gives up after a while.

  Instead, we sit and watch Beavis and Butthead and a few eighties cartoons, picking at a take-out pizza. It’s not until the doorbell rings that I move away from the confines of the sofa, which I half expect to make a noise like Velcro being pulled apart when I peel myself away from it. It’s dark outside and I shiver over the memory of the police taking Grant away a few weeks ago. I remember having this same ominous feeling back then too, already sensing this isn’t good news.

  “Matt?” I whisper, already with a whimper behind it, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks sadly at me and pulls me into one of his giant hugs. Now I know this isn’t good.

  “I’m sorry, Mils,” he says and kisses the top of my head when I let my sobs spill out all over his sport’s jacket, “they found him guilty.”

  I look up at him through blurry tears and with a painful lump in my throat, knowing that a good, hard cry is just around the corner for me.

  “How long?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer but needing to, all at the same time.

  “Eight years…no chance of getting out until after five,” he replies, almost sounding guilty for being the bearer of such epically bad news.

  My heart breaks when he delivers this gut-wrenching blow but at least I have him here to hold me.

  “There’s more,” he says cautiously, “your Dad kind of gave a statement to the media.” I remain rigidly still inside of his arms while he pauses to clear his throat. “He told them he and your mother have disowned Grant, condemned his actions, and feel nothing but shame towards their only son. They want the family to be left alone to grieve in your
own way and to be able to do so peacefully.”

  “That’s not news,” I replied bitterly, “they already told me they were going to turn their back on him if he was found guilty. I hate them. They can’t leave soon enough!”

  “I’m so sorry, Mils,” he kisses my forehead, “is there anything I can do?”

  “Not really,” I shake my head and finally pull away from him, “just be my friend?”

  He nods but looks like I just stabbed him in the heart after friend-zoning him yet again. Not that I can even begin to worry about all of that at the moment. I’m sure he can seek comfort in the arms of his new girlfriend, even if she does hate me.

  “Well, I best…” he throws his thumb over his shoulder, “I mean Chloe…I gotta go. Call me if you need me though, any time, any place!” I smile and nod, but I know things just got awkward again.

  Mercy decides to not respond with her usual sarcasm, choosing to hug me tightly instead. She tells me she’s staying over and tomorrow morning we’re going into town to get every major fat and sugar group going, so we can binge ourselves into a stupor. I feel exhausted and gutted so choose to just agree with her before heading up to bed. She sleeps with me that night and I feel comforted by it, like having a sister to lean on, even if it is only temporary.