Unknown

Prologue

The human mind is a mystery. It can process an image in roughly 13 milliseconds. Coincidentally it can flash your entire life before you within that time, too. A fraction of a second is what it takes to turn your mind to mush and to freeze the breath in your body. Because a fraction of a second is all that is required to contemplate the scene in front of you, to feel your soul paralyze inch by bloody inch in mute terror and rising fury.

I couldn’t call her, couldn’t reach out to her, could do nothing but watch her stand on the very precipice of the valley, frightened and terrorized, as her tormentor bullied her, dancing around the slippery rocks with a pistol in hand and blood in his eyes. He wasn’t completely insane, which made him cautious. He wasn’t completely sane which made him dangerous.

I looked into her eyes, my blue eyes, for what seemed an eternity, yet a brief look of reassurance was all I allowed myself, as I crouched down for a hefty chunk of a rock from the meadow, without once losing sight of her. And prepared to emerge from the shadows to defeat our demon and end this evil.

All I have is one chance.

1. The prodigal daughter

1.5 months earlier

Fate has a habit of turning up at unexpected corners and messing up with the best-laid plans. To my miserably forlorn existence, fate has come with the face of my own personal Cruella de Vil, after being

conveniently
absent for roughly five years.

Elizabeth.

I couldn't precisely explain why seeing her was such a jolt to my system. All these years when I had believed myself immune to anything that pertained to her, all those times spent writhing in helpless agony over her, the only woman I had ever loved, the only one I had lost. All the time spent building walls around me amounts to nothing, as I feel them crumble, brick by bloody brick. I guess the heart could only be fooled this long.

So, despite these walls, watching her neatly stacking her clothes in her teak almirah, inside the room, which had once belonged to her, has me backing up a few steps, as my heart twists in agony. Her face, her smell, the sight of her, is like a knife to my soul, twisting and turning relentlessly. It nearly undoes me, this proximity. Like I imagine a gust of wind would, to a man gasping for air. But all too soon the euphoria pales, giving way to a sense of panicked desolation. And then it is rage I feel. Of all the nerve, the incredible
gall!
That she shows up in Cider valley was bad enough, her presence in
my
freaking house is intolerable.

How dare she insinuate herself into my life again?

She has no right!!

No right to torment me this way. Watching her stand beneath my roof is like a slap to my face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I yell, startling her, as a fresh pile of clothes go tumbling down, on the floor. She turns her head and looks straight at me. Her eyes are the same vivid blue I remember, the clearest blue I had ever laid mine on. Her hair, the same mahogany unruly mop, is fastened by a ribbon in a tail. Her face is all pink and roses, peaches and cream. She used to wear a permanent blush in the winters, I remember. And because the memories were disturbing on too many levels, I fasten my eyes on her head, waiting for an answer.

"I___I was here for the holidays. My college semester ended last week, and dad had some meetings here, so I___"

"I don't want your biography," I hold up my hand, interrupting her, "a succinct answer to a straightforward question will suffice. What are you doing in my house?"

"Uncle Jonathan invited me for thanksgiving", she offers hesitantly.

"Invited you"? I snarl, fisting my hands by my side in an effort to overcome my anger. I was ready to commit murder, or kick someone's puppy, at least.

I contemplate a few options here. Throwing something hard and expensive, like one of mom's countless vases, or the gargantuan landscape on the opposite wall is one. Rapping her head against said wall is another.

I manage to resist them all, albeit with great restraint. 

How can they do this to me?
My own
father! Inviting her to stay in our house, my nemesis!!!

"And I suppose you couldn't refuse, out of the goodness of your heart", I deadpan, inwardly wincing at my tone. How can I blame her when my own parents are traitors?

She just shakes her head and mumbles, "I'm sorry".

Her apology, delivered in a miserably despondent tone, is such a contrast to her usually loud comebacks, it has me searching her face for some hidden meaning. Why does
she
have to look so pathetically forlorn? And what was
she
sorry
for?

"I'll go if you want me to, Nick I___", I hold up my hand to stop her once again, disgusted by her theatrics and my own pitiful response to her. The sound of my name on her lips still holds the power to send my heart throbbing. I had long ago acquiesced to the pain of her betrayal, and learnt instead, to live with the dull, sometimes physical ache her absence evoked. I know I can never be indifferent to this girl. But fake it, I certainly can.

"It doesn't matter one way or the other. Dad could invite a stray of puppies if he so desires, it's his house after all. Just stay out of my way, and I'll extend the same courtesy to you, and it shouldn't be a problem."

With that final repartee, I turn around, giving myself a mental pat on my way to my room, when an uncomfortable urge for a small measure of retaliation surges swiftly inside my chest. Heading back quickly, I knock on her open door and add "and by the way, it's Nicholas to you".

2. Smoke and mirrors

Cider valley, with a population of 2,378 inhabitants, is a small town, situated on a small expanse of land accompanying the valley of Cider apples, famous for its history of hosting tribes which are credited for discovering the cider flavored liquor back in the 16
^th
century.

The town boasts of a total of 966 small and big houses, 2 shopping malls complete with 4 theatres each, 2 amusement parks, 15 independent 24*7 walk-in stores and a list of ever expanding restaurants and fine dining. The Cider community is a closely-knit one, with its own set of rules, and jobs for each and every native who wishes for it. Some, who manage to break the hold and settle elsewhere, make sure to visit their loved ones at least once a year. Others seeking education outside, obtain their degrees and return to the valley. It is an independent community, like any other. And like any other small populace, it is a very nosy one, where everyone knows everyone, and everybody’s business is, in fact, everybody’s business.

I have obtained my degree in law, which had earned me a respectable job at ‘Victor and Nelson’, a small but reputed law firm and 3 years worth of work experience. It had also earned me an array of sleepless nights, and three years worth of thanksgivings and Christmas’ spent away from home. This year, however, is a different story, since I’d decided to take a brief sabbatical from the tedium, before I go on to pursue my master’s or DJS and open my very own firm in or near Cider valley. Having made that decision a month ago, I quit my job, sold my two-bedroom apartment, packed my bags and drove home.

Home is a two-storey manor made entirely of white stone with grey painted rooftops, that sits, smack in the middle of a huge courtyard, divided into two. The front courtyard is cut into a basketball court in the centre, and a wide patio filled with two small tabled 6 sofa chairs and a porch swing. The back courtyard houses a pool and a small green house by the left. One broad side strip path on the right is reserved for parking. The interior itself is painted entirely white with specks of golden thrown in.

The main door opens into a kitchen to the left, with a huge slab of white granite and over the top counters, with individual shelves and sideboards carved out of chocolate brown walnut, filled with every kitchen appliance known to man, and complete with a wooden dining table for six. To the right is a large drawing room with an aesthetic stone fireplace, flanked on either side by two mahogany slabs, housing three columns of bookshelves underneath and a four-piece sofa complete with a settee, facing the glass windowpane. A narrow path to the right leads us straight to two adjacent bedrooms, Kate’s and mine. And a curved staircase to the left leads us to a two bedrooms on the right and a game room and guest room to the left. Mom had long ago converted one of those bedrooms into a parlor of sorts to host her monthly book discussion gatherings.

It is a beautiful house, made more beautiful by its constancy, and apart from the porch swing that was added for ‘she who I don’t wish to name’s’ eighth birthday, nothing much has changed.

Dad is seated at the settee at the moment, chatting a storm with

Mr. Jobson who is busy gobbling as many chocolate chip cookies as will potentially fit in his wide open half stuffed mouth, ignoring the hostile glances aimed his way from the kitchen, where, Mrs. Jobson pretends to talk with mom, while secretly planning ways to throttle her husband.

Emma, their red haired daughter, is twirling a lock of red hair between her thumb and index finger, and massacring the reputation of some poor unsuspecting punk who she had been last dating, with some very creative inputs form Kate. Since her return 2 hours ago, she has been parading the house like a charged horse, spreading stories of her hostel life, attempting to predict tomorrow’s weather, and criticizing the décor of the living room. A little more color here, a few more bells there, brighter light bulbs, so on and so forth. Everybody seems in an overly festive mood.

It takes all my self-control not to start screaming.

Every now and then, I steal a glance at the object of my hatred, sitting alone on the swing by the porch, deriving a sort of perverse pleasure at her loneliness. At least my parents are giving her a wide birth. Good, I think with some satisfaction. It is the absolute least they could do, if I was going to be denied a chance at a proper confrontation. They may have ‘invited’ her to our home, but the doors to their hearts are still locked.

And these sappy over sentimental reflections do nothing for my spirit. I struggle with my anger, chanting the same mantra over and over again.
Ignore her, ignore her

As if I cannot help myself, as if I’ve taken leave of my senses, I risk a swift peek at her once again, narrowly escaping Mrs. Jobson’s understanding smile. Molly Jobson may have been a warm and good-natured neighbor who was a friend of the family’s for more than 2 decades, but frankly, her pitying smiles are making me antsier by the minute. She is one of the many, who had born witness to the utter chaos that was our lives, when Beth had left suddenly.

And now that she is back, the entire town will be wearing the same expression of sympathy on their faces. The thought stirs me up once again, so I try to pay attention to the sports channel, not volunteering any conversation and not venturing any more glances.

The evening is similarly wasted and night comes all too soon. No further opportunities for a one on one had arisen in the course of the day, and I’d decided not to intrude upon their merriment, even if it were pretentious for most part. I simply refuse to believe that everyone else was unperturbed by her presence. Or maybe it is just
me
. Maybe
I
am
the only one incapable of ignoring her.

Since sleep has decided to elude me, I spend the first half of the night turning the pillow over and over, to the cold side. It is ridiculous really, how my mental faculty absolutely refuses to shut down, even momentarily. My mind is a kaleidoscope of distorted thoughts, all messed up and coalesced into one big fat messy puzzle. Finally, giving up and giving in to my restlessness, I stand up and walk out of my room, into the adjoining balcony, and settle myself at gazing the night sky. It is one of those miserably lonely nights, with a moonlit haze and dark blue sky, showing no signs of a star. We will be snowed in in no time at all, I muse. The thought cheers me up a little. I have a distant appreciation for everything white. Especially snow
. The disti
nct croon of the winter wren hangs in the air, with the smell of savory scenting the atmosphere. The luminescence of the moon is like a balm to my heart and I find myself calming.