Chapter Twenty-Seven

There were many topics you wished to touch on, some more pressing than others, and a few that burned you with such emotion that you struggled to restrain the intensity of feeling that threatened to have you start this conversation by shouting.

Your eyes never wavered when you saw the tattoo in that drawn-out, will-rending moment.

Initially, your concerns were minor, that she dressed too scantily for a girl her age, and more importantly, that it gave off the wrong image that a girl such as herself should cultivate in social circles; she was not some easy girl meant to be a notch on a jock's bedpost.

Yet, when your gaze travelled across her navel, staring at her shoulders and smooth, delicate arms; it was inevitable that you would notice the tattoo; and in the drawn-out second, you wondered what else you failed to notice about Chloe.

It was an instinctual action, fuelled by emotion and a desire for answers, that you gripped her wrist tightly, keeping her arm locked into place; your other hand pressed against her shoulder, preventing the girl from rising from your lap, her terrified gaze meeting your wrathful expression.

"How long?"

Her head nestled upon your thighs, eyes darting about, trying to avoid meeting your intense gaze, your interrogative voice making the girl less cooperative as she begins to hide within herself.

"How long, Chloe?"

You repeat your question, this time with more force, the underlying tension of violence growing thicker enough that the girl answers rather than invite what consequence comes with continued silence.

"A month..."

She's quiet, you could barely hear her words, but you did, and that was enough, your eyes growing cold, your grip tightening, her arm shaking in your grip even as her other hand rests on your forearm, squeezing, trying to get you to lessen your hold.

That's when she had decided to start wearing full-length shirts, often yours owing to her more select wardrobe, the pieces slowly falling into place as the silence between the two of you stretched on.

Her paralyzed hand shivers more violently, a mix of her trying to tear the limb out of your increasingly tightening grip and the fear she has, likely of you.

But, when she gave you the answer, and your mind had finished putting together the confusing jigsaw that was her prior actions, and more importantly, the painful criticisms you had for yourself, the inattentiveness you displayed, how you could have let something like this go unnoticed for an entire month.

You felt angry, staring at the fern tattoo across her forearm reaching her wrists, the large moth, whose symbolism is lost upon you; its fine patterns looking akin to eyes, staring at you, mocking you.

She rises, the hand pressing down on her shoulder, failing as the girl shifts her body, manoeuvring herself to slip from beneath your pressing strength.

The same hand latches onto her throat, but when your fingers brush against her exposed flesh, you pull away, a sense of shame rising as you realize you would have taken out your anger on the girl with violence.

Something that would have made you little better than your old man.

"Why?"

Gone is the strength, the burning fury and righteous indignation that coloured your voice.

In its place comes exhaustion and a sense of confusion, your eyes staring at her arm with a lost expression, your grip on said tattooed limb loosening until she can tear it away from you, nursing her reddened wrist against her chest.

What you have lost, she has gained, a fire burning beneath those bright green eyes that almost seemed to glow with the ferocity of emotion that makes even you double-take.

"Why can't I?"

She responds to your question with one of her own, and at that moment, you feel as if you are being pulled into a multitude of directions, tearing apart the seems as you try to articulate a valid reason that justifies your overbearing domination of the girl.

It's for your own good as I rack up debt with intrusive cybernetics.

You're still a child, whilst I had done far worse at your age.

I pay the bills here, not you, so why don't I just drive you away now?

Your mouth becomes dry, and every reason you have, is perfectly understandable to yourself, yet; when you move to say it, you are struck by indecision, placing yourself in Chloe's position and questioning what right, as a sibling, you have to control her bodily autonomy.

At that moment, you realise how little power you truly have over the girl.

She needn't listen to you, and your shared mother's punishments are so soft that they needn't exist in the first place; the fact she hadn't become a truant delinquent is a testament to her character.

You have disciplined her before, but it was never forced upon her; your commands were followed because she acknowledged them, but you're her brother, not father.

Have you been living vicariously through Chloe?

That her education, extracurriculars, home life, and hobbies have all been things you had pushed the girl to pursue and not of her own desire?