A Vision of Green (Florence Vaine #2) (2 page)

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.

My dad sits down on the sofa beside Sal and lights up a smoke, offering one to her. She takes it with a flirty grin. Ugh, these two, all smiles and happiness until they run out of beer or money or whatever drugs they're on and then they'll be at each other's throats.

“
So, how's life been treating you here Flo? I hope you haven't been getting into trouble,” my dad puts in, taking a drag.

“
Yeah because I'm such a t-trouble maker aren't I Dad?” I say, my voice hard.

I wouldn't normally be so outspoken with him, but it seems that the time I've spent away from my father has made me realise just how pathetic and weak he is. Just how much I shouldn't fear him. That and the confidence having a friend like Frank gives me. When someone accepts you and likes you for who you really are, it kind of helps you to form a solid sense of identity. Before I came to Chesterport I was completely institutionalised by Dad. His brutality was all I knew, and fearing him was my whole life. Now I've got something more, a belief in myself and a boy who has my back.

Sal giggles, obviously getting the joke that I look nothing like a trouble maker type. Well, inasmuch as she can seeing as she's blind drunk. Her aura is grey and faded from years of hard living, with a slight outline of red. Her story is an obvious one. Perhaps she was beautiful and passionate once, but she put her faith in a few wrong men and from there her life went down the toilet. It's sad to see that she's still repeating the pattern, since she's here with Dad.

“
Don't be cheeky,” says Dad. He won't get hard with me, not yet. It'll take him a few days. Plus, he's in a good mood right now, wait until the thrill of getting Gran's house and money wears off and the monster will creep out. It always does.

Growing up with him was a series of bad times interspersed with periods of excessive partying. Those were the times when I'd get a reprieve from his torture, but it never lasted. In a way those periods of reprieve were worse, because they allowed my sense of apprehension to build up, the knowledge that one day soon he was going to come home in an unholy temper over something.

I'm lost in thought, but Dad's voice brings me back with a little thump of my heart. “Hey, are you gonna stare at that can all night or are you gonna drink the bloody thing?”

I place it on the floor. “I don't r-really want it.”

Dad stares me down, his eyes like black, soulless pits. “Pick it up. Now.” I recognise his tone all too well, it's not the kind of tone that I'm inclined to disagree with, so I bend down and pick the can back up. His ugly aura swirls with sick satisfaction.

“
You're gonna open it and you're gonna drink all of it Flo, and you're not gonna complain, you hear me?”

“
Yes,” I reply, barely a whisper.

The room is silent then, with the snap of the can as I open it the only sound. I lift it to my lips and take a long, hard gulp. Sal giggles again. God that woman finds the most basic things funny. All the alcohol and drugs must be killing her brain cells. Dad often plays this game with me, making me drink with him so that he doesn't have to do it alone. The thing is, I don't get why he's doing it now, since he clearly has Sal to keep him company. Perhaps he feels the need to reassert his dominance after my little bout of freedom from him.

I've never really thought to indulge in under age drinking, because my dad would be only too pleased to see that happen. One of the reasons teenagers drink is to defy rules and authority. You can't exactly defy authority by doing something it wants you to do. I keep drinking the beer, even though it tastes like piss water, or what I imagine piss water tastes like, because it's better than the alternative. If I don't drink it Dad will just come up with some other new way to torture me.

He has a smug grin on his face as he stubs out his smoke in an ashtray and gets up to go into the kitchen. A minute later he returns with some shot glasses and a bottle of liquor. He places them all down on the coffee table in front of me and begins pouring the clear golden brown liquid into the glasses.

I watch him closely as he does this, all the while doing my best to finish my beer, because I know he won't leave me alone until I do. Old habits really do die hard. He's only returned to my life for twenty minutes and already I'm reverting back to obeying his every command. It's somehow programmed into my brain.

There are five shots laid out before me, and Dad returns to sit down beside Sal, giving her a big smacking kiss on the lips as she squeaks in surprise and delight. Those shots look all too ominous, so I slow down my consumption of the beer. Dad notices straight away. Trust a drug addicted, alcoholic to be unnaturally in tune to how fast or slow someone's drinking.

“
Don't fuck around with me Flo, finish that now before I have to make you.”

I hate how his words cause my hands to shake. I bring the beer to my lips and tip it up, drinking long and hard until there's nothing left.

“
Good girl, now you can start in on the shots,” he orders.

“
I'll be sick if I d-d-drink all of those,” I say, my head already a little woozy, and that's from just one beer.

“
No you won't, get them down you,” he laughs cruelly and Sal joins him, grabbing the bottle Dad had poured the shots from and taking a slug out of it.

I pick up the first shot and knock it back quickly, like you'd do with medicine to avoid the taste. It burns as it slides down my throat. Dad's face is triumphant when he sees me wince at the sting. He wants me to give up so that he can berate me some more. I'm not going to let him. In quick succession I down the remaining four shots, and I can feel them sloshing around in my stomach, making me queasy with the urge to throw up whatever food is down there. The dinner I ate at Frank's house earlier this evening seems like a lifetime ago.

Dad frowns when I'm finished the last one. But he's not letting me get away that easily. He stands up and refills all of the glasses and then goes to plug the stereo back in. The Happy Mondays blast out yet again.

I glance at the shots and then back at Dad. “You're not serious are y-you?”

He looks at me very briefly, his voice is cold when he says, “Deadly,” before Sal begins whooping and dragging him around the room to dance with her as if they were in a night club or something.

I turn dejectedly back to the shots and resign myself to a hangover in the morning. Since it's Sunday night I won't even have the benefit of a lie in. After a while I pass out, despite the blaring music, with the taste of brandy in my mouth and a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.

When I wake up there's music still playing, only at a lower volume this time. The morning light is shining through the window and the living room is a complete mess. Dad and Sal are nowhere to be seen. My neck hurts from sleeping on the armchair all night. I stand and go over to turn off the stereo. I wobble a little on my feet, still a bit drunk. I had so many shots before passing out last night that I can't recall an exact number. My head is pounding. My mouth is scratchy and sore.

I go into the kitchen and rifle some headache pills out of the cabinet, swallowing them down with a glass of water. I only have about forty minutes to get ready for school, so I skip breakfast and hurry upstairs to take a shower. I don't want to show up stinking of alcohol.

I can hear Dad and Sal both snoring loudly in Gran's old bedroom. Thankfully, the door is shut. I don't particularly wish to see either of them in any kind of state of undress. I rush through my shower before slipping on some jeans, a cream camisole and a long grey cardigan. I run my fingers through my wavy damp hair, grab my bag and rush out the door.

I get to school with a few minutes to spare, so I hurry to my locker to grab some books.

“
Hey Flo, how was your weekend?” Caroline asks as she scoots up beside me, looking far too chipper at such an early hour.

“
It was g-good,” I answer her with a shy smile. “Sorry, um, about showing up unannounced at your house on Friday. It turns out Ross was somewhere getting drunk for his birthday after all.”

I know it's a lie, but I can't let on to Caroline what really happened. That her cousin's murderer was going to kill Ross because she's a witch who drains the life force from teenagers with supernatural abilities. And also that the aforementioned witch is now serving some kind of punishment in heaven or hell, or wherever it is Sam and the other Nephilim sent her.

“
Oh there's no need to apologise about that. I'm a real worrying type too, so I know how it is.”

I nod and we turn to walk to class together. We're about halfway there when somebody grabs me from behind, stopping me in my tracks. My heart hammers in my chest and I let out a little yelp of surprise, before I turn around to find Frank's bright blue eyes gazing down at me.

“
Hey,” he says softly, before looking over at Caroline. “I just need to talk to Flo for a minute, we'll see you in class.”

Caroline raises an eyebrow and grins, but she doesn't say anything. Instead she turns and continues on her way. Frank quickly pulls me through a door at the side of the corridor that leads to an empty stairwell. All alone, he pushes me up against the wall and runs his hand under my top, stroking over my stomach. He buries his face in my neck and groans. “God, I missed you Flo and it's only been one night. What are you doing to me?”

Frank, alongside the rest of his foster brothers, was cursed since birth to carry a demon inside of him. Apparently there's something about me that's able to soothe the beast, so when Frank touches me or I touch him, he feels calm and peaceful. He's currently running his nose up and down my neck affectionately, making it difficult to breathe. I notice he's finally beginning to accept that I prefer to be called Flo rather than Florence.

“
N-nothing consciously,” I manage, just before he begins kissing his way along my collarbone, scattering tingles in his wake. I just about melt in his arms.