The back route to the Delroy’s and Stone Estate is mercilessly quiet. My brother’s comment is something that for some reason holds me in a haze between cautious curiosity and nervous understanding.
Our normally quiet roads are unnaturally busy today. This is Liston Hills, people are indoors, either having a party or attending one. If you not doing that then you must be working, or jumping on your helicopter leaving for the weekend. People in Liston Hills aren’t out, driving their Porsches in the afternoon unless there’s reason and we all know it’s the forty year old Jane Doe, with the black butterfly tattooed to her flesh.
I shiver for no other reason than the image from the t.v while I watch the unusual bustle in my small community. Is there any other reason? We have one major mall and a couple of restaurants that knows a Saturday is a quiet day, of course there is no other reason, and as we drive to our destination, my stomach turns and twists like a warning call of what’s to come.
It’s easy to spot the three storey cabin, which can be seen clearer from end of the road as we skirt around the edges of the titanium enforced, brick covered walls surrounding the Estate.
Five miles pass the Estate is the Delroy’s cabin, my brother is still quiet, there is no music to fill the void unless I’m counting the loud drumming of my heart as I see the chrome metal that I know belongs to Sabastian parked out front as my brother drives up on to the driveway.
“Are you going to be okay.” My brothers voice should help my sudden stupor but I remain silent. I’m not sure how to answer him, truth is It feels like I’m doing something wrong, like I’m betraying Reagan ‘cause my traitor of a body is excited, yet my scraped and beaten heart is still suffering the effects of Sabastian Delroy. You know the one where you just have to block it out, and forget that you care for that person, forget that you saw your future only with that person. As it consumed you, until you were there at the edge waiting for them to wrap their hands around your waist and whisper those delicious words you crave like the hit of caffeine in the morning. It came for me, he did it all, and I forgot about Reagan, I forgot about everything except him, Sabastian Delroy. Then he reminded me, he showed me why I hated him, why I was suppose to stay away from him. He showed me how it was to really rip someone to shreds, to leave them bleeding without a trace of evidence but the silent tears that leave the glow of a shattered heart behind. Sabastian Delroy taught me fear.