Author's note: This Chapter mysteriously vanished off Literotica's website in late October of 2022, so here it is again. All of the previous scores and comments were lost too, so please feel free to add yours again, even though the story was written some time ago.
All characters are imaginary and bear no intended resemblance to any person, living or dead. Furthermore, everyone who engages in sexual activity in the story is over the age of 18.
I sat watching the rain on the train window - silver threads weaving erratically over the cold, wet glass. I could see my reflection there too, flitting over the darkening English countryside - the pale blur of my face with its heavy, somber brows and dark sunken eyes underscored by purple bruises of exhaustion, and the line of my mouth tense with the strain of the last few months. The tracks of the raindrops were superimposed across it like tears, and I thought how fitting that was in light of all that had happened.
My mind drifted back over the last eight years, virtually all of them overseas. Seven of them to build the business from nothing: to find a beautiful bride, to buy the house in Seattle and to bask in growing wealth and success. I remembered the invitations and the parties, the new friends and the open doors -- a rapidly spinning vortex of money and favours that was so different to what I had been used to. I remembered the excitement of it -- the heady euphoria of waking up to each day knowing that it could only be better than the last, and how it had blinded me until it was too late. And I remembered the last eleven months -- how the bubble had burst and the company's worth fell almost overnight to virtually nothing. The vultures gathered quickly then, stripping the remaining assets like carrion off the bone -- what was left of the Company first, and then the trinkets of success -- the paintings and the boats and the cars. I recalled how the friends had vanished and the invitations dried up, and the shrill voice of my wife telling me that if I couldn't keep her in the way she liked she would find someone who would. And then, finally, the bailiffs escorting me off the premises, leaving me alone in the street with barely the air fare home.
And so here I was, Jack Travis Harrison, 30 years old and nothing to show for the past eight years except a few grey hairs and a heart full of bitterness, coming home like a beaten dog with fifty pounds in my pocket.
The train started to slow for my station and I stood up and lifted my hold-all from the overhead rack, nodding briefly at the elderly couple in the corner of the compartment who had clung together for the whole journey as if I was an axe murderer. With a final squeal of its brakes the train stopped, and I stepped onto the dark, windswept platform.
I wished I could say I was happy to be coming home, but I wasn't. Not like this.
*
"Are you dead?"
The voice was pleasant: soft, with a lilt of the west country and it infiltrated into the black depths of my exhausted sleep, drawing me up towards the light of a day. I groggily opened my eyes.
"I said, are you dead?"
I managed to open one eye, even though it felt like it had been super-glued shut, and I swiveled it to locate the source of the noise. There was a girl standing at the end of my bed, dressed in a pair of working trousers and a heavy sweater. Tall -- not much shorter than the low oaken beams above her head. Blonde hair, medium length so that it just touched her shoulders. An oval face with an upturned nose, a little crooked to be perfect, and a full mouth with soft lips turned up at the corners to give an impression that life was only there to be laughed at. She was leaning forward, regarding me intently with pale eyes. Curious eyes -- neither friendly nor unfriendly. Just watching.
I peered up at her without answering and for a few moments we stared at each other, and then she shrugged a little.
"It's nine o'clock and Mum sent me to find if you were alive. She'll be pleased to hear that you are, but sorry about your speech impediment."
"Pardon?" God, was that my voice? I'd heard cement mixers with better tonal quality.
"Ah ha! You can speak! Not so much an impediment, then - more that you were struck dumb."
"Who are you?" my voice sounded like a croak.
She shook her head. "You really are out of it, aren't you! How many girls do you know who call your mother 'Mum'? Uh, let me think....uh, there's Donna Ann, your big sister, and -- wait for it -- Amelia Jane, your little sister." She put her head on the side with a finger to her cheek, pretending to contemplate the problem. "Unless Mum has a few others we don't know about. Hmmm. Let me think. Duh -- no, probably not. So - noting that Donna is in London, who do you figure I am?"
"Amie."
She laughed briefly and clapped her hands. "Well done!"
My brain struggled to be alert, to say something clever. "It's just that I haven't seen you for so long, Amie. Last time I looked you were a little girl."
"And now?"
"Well, you'd have to admit you've changed a bit." I regarded her blearily. "Well, a lot really. You're suddenly a big girl." She was, too. Even under the baggy clothes I could sense the curves and warm plasticity of her body.
"Not suddenly. I've been like this quite a while, while you were gallivanting around the world."
"We've spent so little time together -- with you at school and me away."
"Quit finding excuses for not knowing me!" she said. "Didn't you remember my eyes? Everyone thinks that's the only thing that hasn't changed about me."
At first her eyes had struck me as pale -- almost translucent, but I could see they were actually the colour of clover honey -- a pale gold like a wet beach shining in the first rays of the morning sun. They were shot through with iridescent strands of a darker hue -- not enough to detract from their astonishing colour, but enough to give them depth and complexity. But it wasn't just the shade that was striking: it was their shape and intensity -- not round but slightly slanted, as if someone in our distant family line had been born in the far east, perhaps; and they smoldered with a curious luminescence. Her eyes turned what would be an otherwise interesting face into something quite extraordinary.
"I remember," I said, and she nodded briefly, as if encouraging my mental acuity. Little Amie, just ten or eleven years old and as thin as a rake, clinging to the fence post by the main road to watch me with her clear golden eyes as I drove away. She had been a small forlorn figure then, with pigtails and braces on her teeth. She was right, though -- her eyes were the same -- the rest of her had filled out and rounded, and I would never have recognised her.
We looked at each other a moment longer and then she gave another little nod. "Well, I'll let Mum know that you are still alive. I guess she'll be relieved as she's cooked one of her gargantuan breakfasts. Don't be too long -- she slaughtered half a farmyard to provide for you." She turned and crossed the room, and I heard her footsteps receding down the stairs.
I lay in bed and thought about Amie, feeling foolish that I'd not recognised her -- but on balance, it was unlikely I ever would. I'd last seen her ten years ago, a solemn little thing who was painfully thin and very shy, with a pale sallow face and a serious demeanor. She'd been shipped off to one of those dreadful boarding schools that English parents sometimes subject their children too, and I'd left not long afterwards for the States. Besides, I'd heard she had moved out and was living in London, so it was little wonder that my jet-lagged brain couldn't make the connection between the little thin girl and the self assured woman who had unexpectedly been in my room a few moments ago. Little Amie. Who would have thought?
I glanced at my watch -- nine o'clock, just as she had said. Pale light was filtering through the faded curtains and I pulled them aside. The rain of last night had moved on but the sky was obscured with a layer of high cloud that gave the light a hard, diffused quality that robbed it of any warmth. I remembered the view from this window used to be of open fields to the south, where the land sloped gently to the small stream that formed the boundary between our land and old Ma Curney's, but now all I could see now was the new accommodation wing that had been added to the house a couple of years ago. It had been finished the same way as the original house, with rough whitewashed stone and black edging around the three leadlight windows opposite me, but the shingles on the roof were much cleaner and it had the effect of making the new work appear taller somehow, giving the juxtaposition of old and new a curious lopsided look.
I let the curtain fall back and I swung my legs out of bed to get up. Well, well, little Amie. In the few minutes she had been in my room she had brightened things somehow, even though she hadn't smiled much. It was difficult to know how -- she had said or done nothing to make me feel better, but somehow I did. I thought about it as I shaved in the little sink in the corner of the room and the word serenity came to mind -- those golden eyes, not just beautiful but projecting an aura of tranquility that somehow made you feel your problems were that much less when she was around. I wondered if it was just me, or whether other people thought the same. Either way, I suddenly realised that I was feeling happier than I had for months.
Serenity
and
tranquility
. Two words that seemed so right when I thought about Amie. I didn't know it then, but within a day I would wonder how I could have got it so wrong.
*
Mum was alone in the farmhouse kitchen, kneading a roll of dough on a floured board on the big table. The room was filled with the odour of baking and I for the first time for weeks I felt hungry. She held her arms out for a hug, keeping her floury hands clear as I embraced her. I held her for a moment, realizing how thin she was.
"Your breakfast's in the oven," she said, once I had released her. "It's probably all dried up, as you're so late."
"It's only half past nine, Mum."
"That's half the day gone." She smiled to rob her words of any offence. "In this part of the world that's time enough to clean the house, muck out the stables, exercise the horses and solve world peace -- and still have time to bake."
I laughed. "Which of those have you done?"
