Trēs

Our house is only a few blocks from the school. It's an easy distance to walk, which I do, frequently, so it doesn't take long for me to get home. I used the run time to reflect on what happened. The moment played through my mind like an old film reel I couldn't change. I've always been a unique girl. I can read people and situations unreasonably well, oftentimes being able to sense when something is about to go terribly wrong long before it does. My dad's accident being one of those things.

I make it through the door, hollering for my sister once before logging the fact that there's an unusual stillness about the house, telling me that no one is inside. Grateful for the reprieve of faux family connectedness, I take off up the stairs to my room, dropping my bookbag on my bed and noticing two boxes on the floor of my room with my father's name scrawled on them in black sharpie.

I drop to my knees on my plush grey carpet and pull back one of the old worn cardboard flaps to take see what's held within the tattered boxes. Once I get a good view of what's in the box, I realize that they're some of mom's heirlooms. Her family goes back to the first settlers here, much like Poe's family. Our two families weren't always close. There are some rumours in the storied history of Salem about a family feud that took place right around the timing of the witch trials, but that's all ancient history. Some of that history our town embraces for tourism and the like. But there are some things that we're all too eager to forget.

An old pocket watch, some victorian mourning jewelry, a family photo album that holds pictures of my sister and I throughout the years as we grew. Photos of our dad pushing us on our bikes as we peddled down the road, a few of my mother's old sketches. She really was a talented artist and a great mom, but it wasn't enough to keep her here, it seems.

Closing the first box, I open the second, pulling out a few items that cause my brows to dip in confusion. Feathers, trinkets, and crystals. Long pieces of silk in varied colors. A pewter chalice with beautiful engravings that feels oddly warm to the touch, and several books at the bottom.

Pulling the first book out, I brush the dust off the jacket to get a better view of the cover. The History of Witchcraft. I thumb through it momentarily before adding it to the growing pile beside me, the next book is reminiscent of what I would anticipate to be a recipe book from years back. The old paper is worn and fragile, the binding creaking as I glance inside. My mother's maiden name is scrawled across the top in fading red ink; Wildes.

Thinking back I seem to remember my father mentioning one time in passing that we had relation to some of Salem's witchy roots, but I never really dug into my mother's family much growing up. My grandparents on that side were gone long before I was born and my mother was an only child. I was only five when she died, so I don't hold many memories of her. Law, on the other hand, has more fond remembrances of her. I make a mental note to ask her about it while I return the items to the boxes. I can only assume they were in the storage at the garage my father shared with my uncle Ramsay. He must have brought by dad's personal effects today while I was at school.

One of the necklaces I pulled from the first box catches my eye as I'm returning the effects to their original spot. It's some sort of grey quartz wrapped in beautiful metalwork. The meticulous craft that must have gone into the piece is astonishing. It's a small piece that for some reason fuels my attachment to my mother. I set it aside while I put everything back into the boxes and move them out of the way on the floor.

I strip off my clothes and climb into the shower in the bathroom I share with Law. It's between our two rooms with a door going to either. We spent plenty of time-fighting over it growing up, but it's seemed oddly empty since Law went off to Harvard last year. The novelty of having my own bathroom wore off quickly with how badly I missed my big sister, and I can't help but feel that the woman that came back is a completely different person. I guess becoming an orphan can do that to a girl.

The hot water beats down on my skin, soothing my sore muscles and releasing the tension I had held in them since that moment at try outs this afternoon that I can't seem to shake. Every time I close my eyes I can see the confused looks on everyone's faces, silently asking me questions that I don't have the answers to. What am I supposed to say? "Yeah, time froze and I don't know why, so I just skipped over and helped that girl so she didn't break her face. No big deal." I roll my eyes, irritated with the situation I've found myself in, unable to explain it away.

I roll my shoulders as I rinse the remaining suds off my back and let my mind wander to Oakley. His broad chest and perfect abs tucked beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirts is enough to make a girl whimper, but what I really can't shake is the look of pure hunger in his eyes when he lets them coast down the curves of my frame.

I find my hand wandering south, caressing my folds gently as I consider what it would feel like to have his hands exploring my body. His fingers tweaking my nipples, and his breath on my neck.

"Sunday!"

My eyes fly open, flicking droplets of water from my lashes as I register my sister's voice from her room, hollering for me. Ugh.

"Yeah?!"

She dips her head in just far enough that we can speak with one another but respects my space behind the clear shower curtain.

"We're back. We were in town looking at a few things. Let's have a family dinner tonight and talk about some options going forward, I'll order Thai from that one place you like so much."

Options? What options?

"Uh, yeah. Okay. Let me just finish up my shower and I'll be down."

I hear the bathroom door close with a snick as I turn off the faucet, nerves tensing in my stomach as I can sense this conversation is going to be uncomfortable.