#imaginefic

Chapter 2:

The morning had come bright and sunny with clear skies all across town. As I walked down the street closer to my destination, my nerves began to build up with tension worrying about my interview. Popping a few pills to help the migraine and a can of energy boost began to soften whatever buzzed in my head. Bella dropped me off. Mom believed I was still at work. Dad doesn’t know anything. Doing this alone felt terrifying. I stood in front of the house holding the piece of paper I printed out this morning. The address was correct. In each direction, there was nothing but silence, dead silence. Perhaps this place was a charming friendly neighborhood in the past, but nothing but memories and ghosts lived here now. I proceeded up the steps suddenly jumping at the sound of barking coming from behind the gate. Something large growled and clawed at the gate. It was a dog. A mean dog, too. This person (man or woman) must not like company. Or visitors too much. Gulping, I raised my hand to the doorbell when the door suddenly swung open. I was face to face with a brunette woman, maybe in her 50s, shuffling past me pushing my shoulder, and fixing her handbag.

“Son of a bitch! Rot in hell. Drop dead. Rip your guts out,” she grumbled stomping to her car parked on the curb. She threw her bag in through the window, crawled in, slammed the door, and drove down the block. A rooster tail of exhaust and screaming tires trailed after her speedy departure. It didn’t help with my confidence too much. Mentally I asked myself what I was getting into. I looked back at the open door and peeked in.

“Hello?” I whispered, stepping inside.

It was dark. My nose crinkled. The room felt tight, close, and unaired. My hand reached for a light switch against the wall but it failed to turn on. Pushing back my hair, the back of my nape prickled, and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. There was no response. Maybe they were upstairs? Feeling uneasy, I began to step back towards the doorway giving the final decision to go home.

“Who’s there…” came a hoarse voice. “I do not want to be preached by the word of God I don’t care how many years you were a nurse. I do not need a missionary! Leave here with your bible now!”

Gulping, catching my breath, I stutter,” H-Hello? I’m not a missionary. That woman just left.”

It caught me off guard. Halting in my tracks, I faced the darkness peering into it failing to locate the owner of the voice. My footfall created a creaking noise in the wooden floorboards as I stepped closer into the living room. The house looked old but still had impeccable charm. Wooden floorboards, white walls, a high ceiling, and a staircase leading up to the second floor. All the windows were covered up by bed sheets allowing a dim glow through the sheets. Cobwebs had completely taken over this man’s house and he was on the verge of becoming a hoarder. Newspapers, plastic bags, picture frames, light bulbs, mason jars, clothes, and suitcases were piled up against the wall. Not to mention a big, green, and mossy stain covered the corner of the living room due to a leak from the ceiling. It looked like the entire house needed some repairs. Something moved in the dark. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate as I see something tall, dark, big, and brooding in the darkest corner of the room. The owner of the home approaches and I can’t believe how big he is. My hand clutches my bag while the other pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

Trying to find the courage to speak was beginning to become hard and to be honest, intimidating. His voice sounded so dry and uneven, like a piece of toast in the desert. The dark figure moved across the wall, slowly, until I could see the outline of a man. I stepped closer feeling the pull of gravity become stronger as I can sense him coming closer.

“M-My name… is Evey Williams. It’s nice to meet you.” I reach out my hand. He doesn’t reach out. I wait a moment longer. Feeling embarrassed I withdraw my hand.

His voice seems to be full of suspicion and judgment. Curious. But suspicious.

“What do you want…”

Quickly I pulled my papers out,” I saw your ad online. We scheduled an interview today about the caregiver position. …”

For a long time, he’s quiet until I can hear his footsteps go across the room in loud thumps. He steps forward and takes a seat in the living room chair and he pushes a chair out toward me.

“Take a seat…”

It’s more of an order than a courteous gesture. Little streams of light poke through the open slits of the curtains and bed sheets illuminating little galaxies of lint flying in the air. I take nearly 3 steps through those galaxies and then I see him in a better light. My jaw almost drops when I see him up close. Intense wasn’t the right word. It didn’t seem close to describing him. Intimidating, yes. He had salt and pepper hair with a beard shadowing his chin and jawline. His whole face was mussed, unruly, and longish. There was a raw ruggedness that attached to him like fire attached to heat.

“W-What do you want to know?” I whispered, looking at him through my lashes.

He exhales, croaking, “You sound young…”

Well isn’t that obvious?

I moved my eyebrows before nodding my head. He moves his head looking at the ground and then up at the ceiling before reaching his hand out across the table towards me, suddenly choosing to look at the wall again. His hands are huge. My eyes run down his fingers with wide strong palms that could squeeze a watermelon into chunks or rip phone books in half. I look at his arms under my lashes and I can’t stop staring. 

“Your clearance card… copy of your ID... I need to make copies.”

Reaching for my bag, I do what he says. Everything is pushed forward. But for some reason, his hands reach across the table tapping his fingers everywhere before finding them. This is interesting because he touches each item with precise movements, investigating the thin plastic card in between his fingers. Maybe I should say something. Or would it be rude? Why would it be rude? My paper and card are completely authentic. My tongue runs across my teeth and before I could say something he gets up and walks into the other room (tracing his hand along the wall, I might add) and opens a drawer. In the dark, my eyes can see the silver glimmer of a cane firmly being held in his left hand. He’s limping too. A part of the puzzle pieces together. In heavy thumps, he reenters the room carrying a small book and a pair of keys.

“Write your name here, address, and written consent that you are under my employment of your own free will. The paperwork is very important. I need to know who will be working in my home.”

He pushed a pen toward me, looking at my shoulder, and I gave a face. He was certainly a very careful employer.

“I-I don’t understand,” looking at the papers. “You have my ID and fingerprint clearance card. They’re authentic I promise. You can read it. It’s in my handwriting I swear.”

He looks down to the ground, seemingly annoyed and most disgruntled, but he inhales a long breath regaining his patience, and looks at my shoulder again. The chair he sits in creaks as he crosses his legs.

“I wish I could believe you, but I have to be sure. I like to be %100 sure. I don’t like any loose ends. Have you ever done this kind of work before?” his head tilted to the side.

“Yes, I have. I used to live with my grandmother when I was 13 years old and she needed help around the house. She was diabetic and I helped her with medication and helped her shower. It was for one summer but I learned a lot. She passed away last year.”

“Here you’ll learn more from me. I’ll teach you. But, I hope my schedule won’t take too much time from your husband or children.”

“I don’t have children and I’m not married.”

“You sound young…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh? May I ask how old you are?”

“I’m 17 years old. I may be young… b-but I can work hard. I can do anything you want me to. If you need me to go shopping I can. I… can try and attempt to cook. If you need me to remind you about medications I can do that, too. I may be young but I’m a fast learner.”

“Ah…” he realizes something, nodding his head. “Good. You’re in high school and you only need this as a summer job?”

Shit.

“Y-Yes, sir. But I can work hard for as long as needed. I can push myself to be whatever you need.”

“Don’t panic. All I need is someone to come in for 2 months. Maybe 4 months. I won’t need help all year. All I need are basic things. Newspaper, household chores, feeding, and walking Shadow. Among other things. I need someone young and strong and stable. Reliable. I need someone to come in every day on time. I need you to show up and be here. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“I was recently released from the hospital and I am in recovery.” He knocks his cane on the floor. “That is why I have this. I am weak and in constant pain. My home was broken into and I was attacked.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been so scary.”

“I need you… to be completely available. It’s very important that you’re here with me. I will double your pay if you’re here with me after hours.”

The dark features on his face seemed frozen in half light and half dark, as if he was purposely trying to hide from me. The intensity of his expression doesn’t seem to falter while I squirmed in my chair, pulled my locks behind my ear, and looked down at the middle of the table. It was rude of him to stare for so long.

What’s wrong with this guy?

By now I can feel the pills and energy drink from this morning battle together in the pit of my gut for room making it hard for me not to sweat and squirm in my chair.

“Of course, sir. I can guarantee you’ll be happy.”

“You have an accent…” he noticed, turning his head in another direction. “You’re not from around, here are you?”

I knew he was laughing at me for being so ignorant. My fingers slide my red headband from my head, unraveling my hair down my shoulders and touching my back and the world is suddenly better with the cool air wafting against the back of my neck. It’s not so hot anymore.

I bit my lip,” No, sir.” I pause, for too long, drinking him in. “I live across town.”

Placing my headband back in place I try to remember that this is just a summer job and it’ll be over soon. My hair swoops and falls behind my back as he seems to be dissatisfied with my answer but he looks away and seems to enjoy the color of his living room wallpaper. Something catches his interest.

“Hmmm” he croaked looking at my breasts and I didn’t feel so invited anymore. 

Pervert.

My arms twitch moving in sync as he seems to be studying something on my neck and then moving to my shoulder. With each tilt of the head or glance, he moves in a shark-like motion. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Suddenly he moves his upper body forward and it’s a chance to see his face closer. My heart rate flutters when he’s no longer in the shadows. He tilts his head to the side looking at the ceiling, smelling. His neck cranes down, slowly shutting his eyelids, turning his head to look at the floor, smelling, almost as if he’s trying to look for me. The lamplight illuminates his face in a soft yellow/gold hue. His ‘smelling’ chills me to the bone and my body stiffens, clenching my toes in an attempt to hold back my stifled breathing and give me away. It wasn’t too long when his nose caught something wafting in the air between us, stops, smells again, and unclenches his cane releasing the tension in his knuckles and I could’ve sworn I heard him breathe a soft,” Fuck.”

“Do we have a problem?” the words suddenly leave my mouth and I immediately regret saying anything when his head sharply turns to look directly at me. “Do you want me to leave?”

Then I understand.

His eyes.

Very slowly, he turns his head to the windows, smelling, curling his fingers around the head of his cane. His knuckles pop and turn white he’s clenching so tight. The air became more intense as I watch him use his other senses. The lamplight illuminates more of his face each time he turns his head. I’m breathless when I notice his eyes are two milky white pools. His left eye is scarred, almost burned with star-shaped scars, with a milky white scar across his brow and bridging into his iris reaching his cheekbone. The whole left side of his face is covered in scars reaching to his ear. The other side of his face is smooth and unharmed but the damage has cost him his sight completely. His entire facial feature almost seemed…undead. I had no idea. And that means I’ve been an asshole for the past 5 minutes into my interview.

“You will be working in a blind man’s home…” he croaks looking at the wall, turning his head slowly to the floor and he withdraws back into the shadows. “You’ll do.”

 “I-I didn’t mean to-“

“No, you did not,” his voice seemed distant this time. “Here are the keys.”

On a single silver circle were 3 keys and a red label tag on each. Front door. Back door. Bedroom door. I pocketed the keys into my bag, unable to tear my gaze away from him sitting in the dark, fascinated and intimidated all at once.

“That’s it? I’m hired?” I asked.

“The one important…thing…” he croaked, coughing, covering his mouth, and regained himself. “You must do for me… is to never lie to me.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye and shiver, moving my shoulders. He’s serious. Dead serious. Being in his presence burned something in me. Suddenly the atmosphere of the room shifted from being dreadful and dipped into a peaceful hush between him and me. His head tilted waiting for an answer.

“Of course,” I whispered.

He seems satisfied with my answer, leaning back, taking his cane, and pushing forward the little black book before leaving the room. He limps, turns his head in my direction, then leaves without another word. I look at the empty door frame, the book, and back to the door frame. I reached out and opened the book. It was a chores list of everything that needed to be done and completed in his home in a certain timeframe starting in the morning and ending precisely 12 hours later. My excitement is hard to contain! I finally achieved my summer job duties for the next couple of weeks! I scan through each page as fast as I can before realizing that it’s gorgeous. His handwriting (surprisingly) is very neat, thin, long curved, and beautiful, sitting perfectly on each double-spaced line perfectly. He may have lost his sight but he’s not as beastly as I thought. Before I know it he’s back in the room with me.

“I’ll be here early tomorrow morning. Thank you. I’ll do my best to make your home a happy one,” I smiled, looking into the empty doorframe. “Thank you Mr….”

My face goes red.

I don’t even know his name.

“You do not start tomorrow morning. There are some things that I need to prepare my home for before you arrive. I can’t risk another break-in. You start next week.”

I grab my bag and walk down the hallway and I can hear him thump around in the kitchen opening cabinets and shaking pots and pans, silverware, and silverware falling into the sink.

“Excuse me?”

“I need to prepare my basement before you arrive. There are some things I must do. Then you may begin.”

He turns on the faucet listening to the water splash over the porcelain bowls and heavy mugs clattering at the bottom of the sink. I watch him closely. He stares at the wall while both of his hands scan over every bowl, fork, mug, and knife and turns off the sink water before it reaches the rim. Lathering his hands in bubbles he grabs a rag and begins to rub and finger old coffee stains from a mug. I shrug tucking the book under my arm. He keeps his head perfectly balanced and straight, never once looking down or in any other direction. He’s completely in control.

“I don’t know your name…” I murmur, watching his hands look for a brush. “I’m Evey.”

For a moment he stops, and both his hands grasp the metallic edges of the sink, lowering his head down, listening this time. He turns towards me slowly as if he’s about to say something important. His knee twitches and he tries to hide it, but I can see he’s having a hard time standing on both legs. Limping and half-walking he steps closer to me until he’s standing nearly 3 feet away from me, breathing hard, looking at the ground and to my shoulder. This time I take a better look at his face and his milky white eyes and I’m completely entranced. Complete silence comes between us both and I’m not exactly sure what to do at this moment. My nose catches whiffs of wood (maybe cedar) and a certain musty smell mixed with fresh-cut grass and soap coming off of him. He may be a little older but he certainly doesn’t act or smell old at all. Not like other elderly people I’ve met, which I decided I liked about him. This man, this large intimidating man, uncurtained himself from the darkness and slowly devoured my name one morsel at a time.

“Evey…” he whispers, rolling my name around on his tongue.

He says my name slowly, taking time for him to fully appreciate the sharp and strong ‘E’ and ‘V’ that pronounces my whole name. 

Even when he says my name it sounds delicious.

His eyes go to the window as he turns his head to the ground, tilting his head to the side, listening for my presence for as long as he can. In a second I see his hand reach out for mine and my gut suddenly ripples with butterflies looking at the scars across his knuckles and arms. This man has been through hell and high water and it shows. The scars completely covered his knuckles in little dashes and marks crisscrossing over each muscle with soft white tissue. His whole body was a canvas of scars and I wondered what kind of artist was responsible for it. Slowly my hand grasps his (the butterflies turn into sparkles of fire almost melting my insides) and we are finally introduced in a soft peaceful shake.