Chapter 02: Rebel

Present time, somewhere in a town in Norwich, England, still small and obscure

Angie tiptoed her way stealthily down the stairs. She lived in the house long enough to know exactly how to maneuver in the dark silence. Experience was the key. After years of sneaking about, her feet had developed an adept muscle memory—perusing the right position and amount of pressure on the floor to move like a cat burglar in the night.

As always the staircase was the trickiest part. It grew worse over time. Angie lived in a very old house that was built in the 60s. Clive being the stinking miser that he was (those were Jean's words, not hers) never occurred in his mind to renovate their home for a fresher breath of life. As a result the stairs groaned and creaked like an octogenarian's joints, and you would use it with the reckless fear that the wood might just splinter and break under your weight, and then it's goodbye to your good foot.

Her sneaking antics started out innocently when she was young. Lights off were always at nine. To nurse her nightly hunger pangs, she would creep into the kitchen for that piece of chocolate cookie in the jar.

It evolved to more challenging feats as she entered her teens—for example, watching Hollywood movies on the telly in the living room, with just a tiny dash of sound. She couldn't watch it in Clive's presence; he found them unwholesome and distasteful. But there would always be re-runs on midnight. Angie would sit cross-legged on the floor close to the television, all excited and rapt in attention. If she was feeling particularly adventurous, she would even stay for the late-night talk shows, depending on who the guest was.

Now in her later years, she was brave, no, mad enough to start sneaking out of the house. It was all Jean Moreno's fault. Jean her best friend was always teaching her bad things.

Angie trod on light feet as she skipped down the staircase. It was the trickiest because it was also the closest to Clive's room upstairs. Passing the stairs meant passing half the battle. Once done she rushed for the front door.

She spied a glance at the wall clock, a German-made Black Forest. It was fifteen minutes to ten, which meant it would chime soon. Quickly she reached for the door knob.

"Where are you heading to, Angie?"

Angie froze in the dark.

Her eyes slid fearfully to the direction of the voice, towards the armchair at the far, dark corner of the living room. A still figure of a man sat there. Her chest nearly collapsed.

Impossible! How could she have not noticed him there? She swore she hadn't heard him leave his room after dinner.

"Angie."

She shut her eyes when Clive switched on the lampshade beside him.

"Jean—" she stuttered, taking a step backwards from his approaching figure.

"What about Jean?"

"She has an emergency," Angie breathed, before she could stop herself. She didn't dare to look at his face. Clive could smell her fear like a hawk.

"An emergency? Why didn't you tell me?" He retrieved his phone from his pocket. Angie gaped as she realized he was dialing Jean's number.

No, please, Angie pleaded desperately, don't answer. Don't answer the call. It was too late. She heard Jean's murmur from his phone, amidst some noise in the background.

"Hi Jean, it's Mr Colson here," he spoke, his usual terse voice suddenly tuned for a more cordial lilt. A warm smile cracked deep lines, invisible before, around his eyes and mouth. Amazing how a mere shift of facial muscles could alter one's demeanor so much. It was one of the things about him that unnerved Angie.

To everyone in town Clive Colson was probably one of the nicest people you'd know.

You'd catch him occasionally at the grocery store or the dry cleaners, and he'd pass you by with a curt nod and a polite smile. Clive was a man of few words who avoided the watering holes or anywhere that represented a hotbed of gossip, like it was the plague. But he always offered help whenever people needed it, and he was a staple volunteer at charity drives. The men respected him, the housewives found him strapping for his age. His reputation was spotless.

Years ago Clive had worked for Child Protection Services as a counsellor, something the townsfolk regarded as a noble job. It was also how Angie had met him. After adopting her, he promptly resigned from his post. Now he was at home everyday, holed away in his office doing god-knows-what.

Only Angie had seen his dark side. Only Angie knew how terrifying Clive was capable of being.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"I can hear really loud music in your background, Jean. My goodness, what a racket! What's exactly going on there, I wonder?" he further probed in his friendly manner. Despite saying bad things behind his back, even Jean was not immune when he switched on his charm.

"Oh, a farewell party for a friend? I see. And I assume Angie's invited too, isn't she? Well sadly she's down with a fever, so it's impossible for her to make it." His steely blue eyes locked with Angie's terrified grey ones. "I know, it's rather unfortunate."

The call ended shortly. His smile slowly dissipated, his warmth dissolving, his features turned rigid as stone.

"So it's an emergency farewell party, is it, Angie?" he waved the phone. He took a step forward and Angie backed away, frightened.

"Why would you lie and resort to this behaviour? Who taught you to do this? Was it Jean?"

The wall hit her back. Angie's fear of him gripped her throat like a vice, paralysing her. That was how she always felt with him. Powerless.

She could hear her own heart threatening to burst from her ribcage. And in the quiet house where she lived alone with him, Clive could hear it too.

Close. She was so close to escaping. All she ever wanted was to go a party, for the first time in her life. She had even gotten a new dress with her allowance. She had never bought her own clothes before. Her guardian curated her wardrobe, from her cumbersome gingham dresses, right down to her plain cotton underwear.

At first Angie liked the order of things in her life. When she was younger she firmly believed everything Clive did was for her own good, because he knew what was best.

Home-schooled until secondary school, she learnt the hard way that dressing like a character from the Little House on the Prairie was a faux pas among her peers.

People were always snickering at her in school. She was awkward and shy with her schoolmates, and barely had anything in common to talk with them. It was hard to make friends, not when the "outcast" label was already slapped on her.

Only Jean Moreno stuck to her. They had been next-door neighbours growing up, before the Morenos moved further into the neighbourhood. Jean was the only true friend Angie ever had. She was Angie's pathway to the bizarre world out there. Leading her by the hand, Jean taught her how to speak like the other kids and what kind of music to listen to.

Still, she found it hard to blend with people of her age, who seemed like a different species altogether. They were a brazen lot, most of them, exhibiting none of the modesty Clive had imbibed in her. For years she was quite content to be invisible, as long as nobody disturbed her.

There was Jean Moreno, and then there was also Ansel Wyner.

Ansel Wyner was the new boy in Strathmore Secondary. His family arrived in town in a boisterous RV, and before she knew it, he was assigned as her lab partner. Their lives couldn't be more opposite of each other. His meals were always accompanied with lively chatter, while she ate her food in silent reflection. And yet if you observed closely, you’d find that there was something innately similar about the both of them, something only the most sensitive of minds could detect.

Inside the lab, behind their safety glasses, they saw it immediately in each other upon meeting for the first time. A gentle, quiet rippling in the spirit, like that on the surface of a hidden lake tucked in the deepest of woods. Indiscernible from afar, but there. For that reason alone Angie liked Ansel, despite that he was always surrounded by people, and Ansel liked Angie, despite her eccentricities.

When Ansel told her his family was moving again, this time to London, and he was throwing a farewell party—Angie knew she had to go.

But even in her mind that proved to be a Herculean task, not when Clive laid so many restrictions in her life. A curfew tied her from 7PM onwards. She wasn't allowed to wear make-up and alter her appearance. Smoking and drinking was out of the question, and dating was a taboo subject altogether.

She didn't know it was abnormal until Jean pointed it out. That none of the teenagers lived like her.

And she was turning eighteen in summer.

"What is it, Angie?" Clive's voice broke her thoughts. "What tempts you out there? Is it the need to be accepted within your peers?" His eyes widened, as something shifted in them. "Or is it that? Perhaps you desire male companionship?"

He knew. God, he could read her like a book. Even if he hadn't been aware of Ansel's existence.

Clive stared down at her new dress, his lip curling with disdain. "I don't know what appalls me more. The fact that you've been dishonest, or this skanky dress you have on. Give me your phone, Angie."

"No."

Angie had bristled in response. Her phone was one of her most precious possessions. Surrendering it meant she was being grounded and she had enough of it. Clive would send her down to the basement for the smallest of things.

He offered his hand. "Give it to me, now."

"I'm turning eighteen in summer, Clive," Angie defended, her voice wavering. She wasn't sure where her sudden courage came from—was it Ansel? It felt like he was inside her, steering her forward. "In a few months, you have to relinquish your guardian rights of me. You have to learn to let me go."

Clive breathed out a laugh. "Don't be foolish, Angie. It doesn't matter how old you get. You're staying with me forever."

A sliver of fear wormed into her. "You—you can't say things like that. It's part of the law."

"Then I'll make my own laws," Clive whispered. Angie stilled. There was no trace of humour in his piercing eyes. He was dead serious.

She closed her eyes and flinched when his hand came to touch her cheek. His voice never changed—it was always soft and gentle. She loved it as a child. She loved everything about him, despite his occasionally cruel ways.

But now his voice only served to make her anxious, its deep tone reverberating with animosity under her skin.

"Angie, you must know the world is not the piece of wonderland it presents itself to be. You lived in the orphanage. You know the lowest form of depravity imaginable. There's more out there, and even worse. That's why I want to protect you, so you will not get hurt. Or did you forget the horrors you suffered? Should I remind you, Angie?"

"No!" she cried out. With an uncanny strength, her hands pushed him back and he staggered back in shock. She ran to the door and yanked it open. The bracing night air greeted her face, cool and invigorating. Her lungs breathed it in.

The clock chimed ten. For some reason Angie looked back.

Clive was standing quietly in his spot. In the darkness his gaze peeked out at her, simmering with cold rage.

"You can't live without me, Angie. You can't survive out there on your own."

"Watch me," she taunted.

And she marched into the night in her new dress.

To be continued...