A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (37 page)
Read A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) Online
Authors: L.H. Cosway
I look up at Frank’s face and try to think about the present, instead of
dwelling on the past and the possibilities of the future. His eyes take me in
and their beauty makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. It’s like
gazing at a work of art and feeling so inconsequential by comparison. I have to
scold myself for the thought though, because I’m trying to quit undermining my
own self-worth. Still, Frank is a beautiful person. Despite his demon.
I touch my finger to the flame that glides along his wrist, I close my
eyes and send love to his aura, because I don’t have the courage to tell him
how I feel in words just yet.
I am hopeful about the two of us. Maybe one day I’ll get the words out.
Maybe one day I won’t stumble over the syllables. And maybe one day he’ll
smile, and say them back.
Sam, Carol and Nathan have come too. I find the demeanour of the two new
Nephilim slightly strange, but I try not to fixate on it. They don’t say a lot,
but instead they seem to take in what everyone else is saying with heightened
interest. As though we are some scientific experiment they are keen to observe.
“Nathan and I have been authorised to remain in town for several weeks.
To monitor the aftermath of the killing of the coven,” says Carol when there is
a gap in the conversation.
“Better to be safe than sorry,” says John good naturedly in reply.
“Yes.” Carol answers simply.
The way he says it makes me wonder if that is their only reason for
staying a while. Perhaps they have plans for the boys that they aren’t telling
us about. But Sam doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the announcement, so I
presume it’s all standard procedure. This also prompts me to remember that
there was at least one member of the coven who got away from the hospital that
night. The mother of the little boy. The one I let get away. I hope that the
fear I instilled in her propels her to be a good person, to be a mother to her
son and give up on all that witch business.
Ross is looking much better, most of the colour has returned to his
face. He seems happy to have Layla by his side, and to be surrounded by his
family. Kevin and Benji argue with each other over who should get the last
Yorkshire pudding. Frank sits beside me, his hand rests on my leg and it makes
my heart flutter. Alex watches Layla with a certain sadness, like he knows
she’ll always belong to Ross, no matter what happens.
Frank drives me back to Gran’s house later on after we’ve finished
eating. He tries to convince me to stay in the spare room at the farmhouse
again, but I want to sleep in my own bed. It’s where I’m most comfortable, even
though the house is empty and it can be quite lonely. Frank will probably end
up sleeping on the sofa anyway.
In the centre of town Frank slows down and stops at the traffic lights
and I look out the window at a group of teenagers standing outside a fast food
restaurant. In among the faces I recognise only one. Josh. He makes eye contact
with me before turning away and continuing his conversation with his friends. I
wonder if that boy will ever mature. Ever grow up and quit acting like a
spoiled twelve year old whenever he doesn’t get what he wants.
When we get to Gran’s street I put my hand abruptly on Frank’s shoulder
and tell him to stop the car. My heart sinks and a feeling of sickness hits me
in the gut as I stare wide-eyed at the familiar black truck parked outside the
house. I didn’t think he’d get here so quickly. Normally it takes him two days
just to get dressed and go to the shop down the street to buy a pint of milk.
Especially when he’s been on something. Although most of the time he’d just get
me to do it.
“That’s my dad’s t-t-truck,” I say in a tiny voice, while I continue to
stare at the beaten up vehicle that brings back so many horrible memories.
Frank takes in my expression and asks, “Just say the word and I’ll turn
the car around and drive straight back to the farmhouse.”
I consider it, but then reject the idea. I’m not going to run away from
the things that frighten me anymore.
“No, I need to face him,” I answer, before opening the door and stepping
out into the cold evening air.
“Wait,” says Frank, “I’ll come with you.”
I shake my head. “This is something I have to do by myself. I’ll call
you later.”
Frank looks like he might argue but then he sits back in his seat and
nods. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then. But promise to call me if anything
goes wrong. I mean, if he even tries to lift a hand to you I want you to walk
straight of that house, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I reply with a warm smile, kissing him on the lips
briefly, before closing the car door.
Frank hesitates a moment before he starts the engine and drives away. I
stand on the side of the road for a minute, and stare up at the house where I
know my dad is waiting for me. I take a deep breath before proceeding, and
recite these words in my head...
I am not a victim. I am not timid. I am not a prisoner. My father’s
hate no longer matters. And I deserve to live.
END
The story continues in the second
Florence Vaine novel
A Vision of Green
Now available from Amazon
Read on for an excerpt
One
Some people say that the best things in life are the hardest to achieve.
That you have to struggle to get what you want the most, or be brave in order
to cement the person you are in the eyes of others. I want my father to see who
I am for once, that I'm not a victim or a weak girl he can push around and work
his anger out on.
I've spent many long hours visualising the scene where I show my dad my
true self, where I defeat him in body, mind and spirit. It varies from me
having super human strength and being able to hurt him physically in the way he
has hurt me so many times before, to simply reciting a long and haughty speech
about how much of a low life he is. While I'm giving this speech his eyes will
inevitably widen with guilt, shame and understanding.
Of course, I know that's never going to happen. Especially the second
scenario. Evil people don't know that they're evil, and therefore can't accept
the fact. To them the things they do are for a cause they see as being good.
Their view of what's good is always distorted. I'm sure that every dictator in
the history of the world believed that his bad deeds were justified in his own
messed up vision. My dad is no different. I just don't know whether he excuses
his actions because he thinks he's had such a crap life, or because he feels
the need to escape the woes of being saddled with a stuttering, disappointment
of a daughter.
Maintaining a strong front with him is going to be very difficult. Maybe
that means it'll be the most rewarding thing if I succeed. However, it's not a
good omen that I can already feel my courage dwindling away, bit by bit, with
each new step that brings me closer to him.
I hear the music blaring before I've even walked into the front garden of
Gran's house. I guess it's not her house any more. I'm not sure who it actually
belongs to now. Maybe it goes straight to Dad since he was her only son. Now
there's a frightening thought.
When I've gotten to the front door I stand still for a moment, breathing
in and out, telling myself to be brave, that I can do this. I really hope I can
do this. Dad's inside, laughing and joking with someone else. Someone female.
They both sound drunk off their faces, which isn't exactly ideal. I don't know
how dad's going to react to seeing me again after all this time.
I turn my key in the door and step inside. Some awful song by The Happy
Mondays is playing at full volume. I probably wouldn't despise the band so much
if my dad didn't have a penchant for playing their albums when he gets drunk or
high.
I notice the woman first, swaying her hips to the beat of the music in
the centre of Gran's quaint living room. The contrast is unsettling. The
woman's got messy bleach blond hair with the roots growing out about an inch or
two, and she's wearing skin tight blue jeans with a white halter top. Several
tatty gold necklaces grace her neck, pooling in the centre of her chest.
She's probably only in her late thirties like Dad, but she looks older,
especially in the face. Her leathery skin is aged before its time. Drink, drugs
and cigarette miles, I like to call them. You know, those extra years that
substance abuse tends to add on to a person's appearance.
Her body isn't that bad, except the boobs are a bit saggy and the
cleavage a little wrinkled from too much sun. She twists and grinds with the
music, a can of beer in her hand and a massive grin on her face. So this is
dad's latest conquest. I'd like to say he's done well for himself, but I don't
think he ever brought a decent woman home in all the years I lived with him.
They're always like this one, harsh, weather beaten and careless. She probably
has a bunch of kids somewhere that she's neglecting in order to get pissed
drunk with my dad. They always do.
I walk over to the stereo and yank the plug out of the wall. The woman
whips around to face me.
“Hey, what did you do that for?” she slurs.
“W-who the fuck are you?” I counter loudly, cursing because that's all
people like her understand. You've got to be blunt with them or else they'll
think you're a pushover.
She steps back a little, not sure how to approach the situation now. “I'm
Sal, Terry's girlfriend. You must be his young one, Flo isn't it?”
“Yeah,” I answer on a sigh. “Where is he?”
“I'm right here,” says a voice just entering the room. A voice that makes
me wince and shiver all at once.
I turn around to face my dad. He's got a six pack of beer in his hand.
I'm hoping this means he's only drinking tonight. He's wearing his usual rig
out, battered black jeans, boots and a denim shirt. His dark brown hair, the
exact same shade as mine, is just as messy as his lady friend's. His brown eyes
are a little bit blood shot. He yanks a can of beer out of the pack he's
holding and shoves it into my hand, before placing his arm around my shoulders
aggressively.
“Well Flo, did ya miss me at all?”
I close my eyes once quickly to bat away the tears. His presence is too
much to take this close. The smell of him hits me; cigarettes, booze and cheap
after shave. Scents can be powerful in dragging memories to the surface.
Memories of my face and ribs all sore from him beating on me. I don't say anything.
He doesn't comment on my silence. “Come on, get that down you, we're
celebrating. It's not every day your old bat mother finally hits the bucket and
leaves you her house and whatever else she might have squirrelled away over the
years.”
Christ, does this mean the house really does belong to him now?
“How do you know she l-left it to you?” I whisper.
He gives me a hard whack on the shoulder, though not in violence, hard
whacks are the equivalent of a soft pat to my dad.
“Of course she didn't, she didn't leave a will. It goes to me
automatically you idiot.” He pauses to look at me, and a cruel grin tilts up
the ends of his mouth. “Did you think she was going to leave everything to you?
Aw Flo, that's tragic.”
Actually, I didn't think Gran had decided to leave anything to me,
especially since she made a deal with a witch to hand me over in exchange for
getting her eyesight back. You can't leave something to a person when you
expect them to die before you do.
“No, that's not what I thought,” I say in a low voice.
Dad ignores me and goes over to put his arms around Sal. “So Flo, you've
met Sal, she's gonna be living with us now.”
I gape. “You're definitely set on s-staying here?”
“Course we are, plenty of space here, a lot more than the apartment back
in the city. I'm gonna throw some legendary parties in this place Flo, wait and
see.”
He thinks this kind of news should be exciting to me, obviously it isn't.
It's kind of sad actually, that Dad still thinks like a teenager, that to him
throwing parties every night is the ideal way to live. Unfortunately, every
party has to come to an end at some point, and when it does and my dad comes
down from his high I'm usually the one to bear the brunt of his misery.
I still can't think of how he might have become so messed up, violent and
dependent on drugs. Maybe it was because my mother died before her time. Or
maybe he suffered from some other unknown trauma in his life. All I know is
that people aren't normally born bad, something generally happens to make them
get that way. I just wonder what Dad's story is.
“That's great, I'm going to my b-b-bedroom now.” I reply, trying to sound
deadpan, but getting caught up on the stutter.
“You are not, you're going to sit down here and have a drink with your
fucking father, okay?” he turns to address Sal. “Kids, ungrateful bastards,
aren't they?”
“I know mine are,” Sal replies, before knocking back what remains in her
can.
I don't drink and Dad knows this, but he still tries to get me to have
alcohol from time to time. Addicts don't like to be alone, they want to lure
other people to share in their obsession. Sal grabs another can from my dad and
snaps it open. I sit down on an armchair and roll mine between my palms,
soaking up the cold condensation on the smooth surface.