esotericverse

[esotericverse]

₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊

[esotericverse]

Gibson Girl - Joel Miller x OC

Fic masterlist/summary here

Previous chapter

CW: DDDNE, Child abuse, eating disorders

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Chapter 2

The mid-morning sunshine glowed golden from the clear Nebraska sky, the warm rays beaming across Mary’s face as she lay sprawled across the porch swing of her parent’s home. Her back was propped against the armrest, the bite of the hard wood softened by a lacy pillow she brought out from the couch.

Her bare legs hung over the other armrest, swinging in tune to the country music drifting from a little radio that sat on the stool near the swing. She had bought it this summer, and only when her parents had both left for the day did she bring it out from under her bed.

Her nightgown rippled in the warm breeze, the lacy white fabric tickling her thighs. She took a bite of the peach she had taken from the fridge for breakfast. The sweet juice dripped down her forearm and she twisted it to catch the drop with her tongue.

Her legs swung over the armrest and her bare feet hit the porch planks as she stood up. It was a beautiful day, and she hated to retreat back inside. The birds were singing in harmony with Johnny Cash on the radio, and the air smelled like peaches and grass and the dwindling remnants of summer.

Alas, she reached for the radio, switching it off and grabbing it by the handle, turning to open the front door.

On the kitchen table she found a note in her mother’s elegant script that she must have missed on her initial trip out to the porch.

Mary,

I will have to stay late at work today, there is lots of extra planning to be done on account of the festival coming up. I left fifteen dollars for you to purchase your school supplies. No need for a backpack, you can use the one you already have. I expect you to go out and get them and be back before me and your father return. Take your bike. Don’t talk to strangers.

Mother

Sure enough, Mary found fifteen dollars stacked under where she had lifted the paper. She fisted them, leaving the note on the table.

Setting the mini radio on the table, she tossed her peach pit in the trash can and padded over to the fridge, swinging the red door open. The cold wafted around her, making her shiver in her thin nightgown.

She reached for the bottle of milk, leaving the door open as she pulled a glass down from the cabinet above the counter. She poured milk into the cup and returned the bottle to its shelf, slamming the door shut. She gathered her things and made her way up the stairs to her room.

Just as Mary suspected, her room had been throughly straightened by Margaret earlier in the morning. Mary had awoken with the sun and had retuned from her bath to find her floor clear, clothes folded neatly, and duffle bags returned where they usually sat unused in the hall closet.

Less than 24 hours and her space had already been violated. She knew it was stupid. It was just stuff, just a room. But it felt deeper than that. Every part of her was under constant violation at the hands of her parents. Her body, her things, her thoughts and emotions. She just wanted some space. Some peace. To be able to feel like she could breathe without fear of being slapped or insulted.

Thankfully, she knew her parents would be at the church late today, engulfed in fall festival planning. The fall festival was Wallow’s biggest event of the year. Her mother’s job as head of the town events committee kept her extra busy this time of year. The actual festival was over a month away in September, but the buzz of excitement tended to begin right after the Fourth of July.

That’s how the residents of Wallows lived, ambling from one exciting event to another, with nothing but mundaneness to fill the months in between. As silly as it was, the festivals gave the town a reminder of why life was worth living. The few-and-far-between highs of excitement were like life rafts, and the residents of Wallows clung to them.

With all of the extra time on Mary’s hands, she was planning a visit to the house. Only for a little bit, she couldn’t afford to stay away for long periods of time. It had been hard enough to explain her overnight absence the last time she had gone at the beginning of summer.

When she returned in the morning to her furious parents she had mumbled something about it getting too dark and her having to stop at Mrs. Grant’s on her way home from the library. Of course they didn’t believe her, and of course her father had beaten her, re-opening the wounds she had mended only the night before. But when they returned from inquiring Mrs. Grant about it, she had been greeted with reluctant apologies and a bottle of pain reliever. Mrs. Grant never brought it up.

Mary drained the last of her glass of milk and set it on the dresser, checking the clock nearby. The roman numerals indicated that it was just past ten in the morning. Perfect.

She rummaged through her newly organized drawers until she had settled on an acceptable outfit: a pair of overalls that cutoff at her mid-thigh, a white top that puffed at the sleeves, and a little pair of ruffled socks.

She slipped off her nightgown and replaced it with the blouse, slinging the overalls over top and fastening them. She stumbled a little as she pulled the socks over her feet. Peering into the mirror, she grabbed her crucifix off of the jewelry tray near to the clock. She strung it over her neck and slipped pearl studs into her ears, turning her head and ruffling her hair.

In the bathroom down the hall she smoothed a serum over her hair and sprayed perfume over herself, the sweet vanilla scent filling the air and clinging to her hair and clothes. She swiped mascara over her lashes and applied pink lip balm to her cracked lips. Finally satisfied, she turned back to her room to grab her bag.

Out in the sun, she dragged her bike from under the empty carport at the side of her house. For a yard and house so large, she always wondered why they didn’t have a garage. She slung her bag into the basket and pushed off, feet landing on the pedals.

Before she had stepped out and locked the door she had pulled a pair of brown Mary-Jane shoes over her socks. They had been a welcome-to-Kentucky present from her Nana and, being the creature of habit that she was, she wore them almost every day.

When she reached the Jackson-Hutton intersection she turned right this time, heading straight to town. As she rode along, friendly faces waved at her as they mowed their lawns and walked their dogs and smoked on their porches. She always smiled back, lifting a hand off her handlebars to wave back. The neighborhoods and homes facing the roads grew in number and density as she reached the next intersection.

On the corner of where Hutton Street intersected with Main Street sat the school complex. Wallows High stood largest in the center, while the middle and elementary buildings lay on each side. The three large buildings were connected by walkways and courtyards and advertised by a large wooden sign near the street. A small playground was fenced off by the elementary school. The complex was huge, and it backed up into the woods behind it, which had been partially cleared to make room.

Mary sighed as she watched workers fixing the gutters of the high school. In just a week she would be in there, starting her first day with kids who had been attending these schools together since kindergarten. She was the only homeschooled kid in Wallows, and it was fucking embarrassing. She turned away, shaking her head. She had seven days until next Monday, and she planned on making the most of them.

She pedaled closer to the intersection, turning left down Main Street. Straight to the heart of town. She didn’t even know where to go to buy school supplies. Her mother had always provided pencils and scissors and glue for their kitchen table lessons. She figured she would try the crafts section of the Hinky Dinky.

She rode through the center of town, past the town hall and the expansive green that was considered the heart of Wallows. The grass rippled in the breeze, littered with little patches of flowers. This was where every festival, gathering, and picnic took place. It was one of the few places in Wallows that always felt full of life, even on an early Monday morning like this one.

Mothers sat picnicking with their small children on spread-out quilts, and a few of the older kids ran around chasing a kite high above them. An old couple sat on a bench feeding the birds. The Johnsons, Mary thought their name was. They were nice, she often saw them at church.

The shops and restaurants along the sidewalk that crescent-mooned the green were beginning to awaken, with signs flipping from Sorry, Closed to Open! and doors being propped open by apron-clad owners.

The scene was worthy of a postcard.

Gilded cage, indeed.

Mary turned and steered down a smaller road in between two rows of buildings across the street from the green. The little road led to her to the Hinky Dinky parking lot, which was littered with only a few cars.

She leaned her bike against the side of one of the brick columns and traipsed through the automatic doors.

“Morning, Mary!” A man from behind the counter greeted her.

It was Earl, a kind old man who had run the grocery store since long before Mary was born. He could come across as kind of creepy sometimes, but Mary knew he meant well.

She smiled back at him, “Good morning, Earl!”

“Anything in particular you’re lookin for?”

“Some school supplies” She responded, bracing for the coming conversation.

“Ah, excitin!” Earl exclaimed.

“You’re gettin awfully big, what grade you goin into?”

“My senior year”

Earl nodded, pointing to the back.

“Well, try your hand in the office supplies. Don’t know if we got exactly what you need, but you’re welcome to take a look.”

“Thanks, Earl.” Mary responded, turning from the checkout counter to slip between the aisles.

In the back of the store, a small rack of craft and office supplies stood in the middle of the large back aisle of meat and dairy fridges.

There wasn’t much to choose from. She grabbed a pack of pencils, some erasers, and a pen. She bent down and reached for a cellophane-bound stack of ruled paper. She wasn’t sure what else she might need. Maybe a calculator, but she certainty wasn’t finding that here.

She took her measly findings back to Earl at the checkout counter, tuning out his droning at the thought of her next stop of the day.

“You want a bag?” He asked loudly, and her head snapped up.

She nodded, and he handed her a plastic sack filled with her supplies. She slipped her change into the bag and waved to him as he bid her farewell.

She glanced the clock on the wall before she exited the double doors, seeing that it was only noon. She had plenty of time. Her parents surely wouldn’t be home till after dinner.

She tied her plastic sack to the center of her handlebars and rode off, starting to sweat underneath the hot sun. It was getting really hot. A swim in the lake would feel incredible right about now.

As she passed back through Main Street, the town had fully awoken and was now bustling with activity. Well, actually it wasn’t really, but for Wallows it was definitely busier than usual. All of the families who had vacationed over the summer were slowly trickling back in, flooding the Main Street shops to re-stock their homes with necessities.

There were so many cars on the street that Mary had to retreat to the sidewalk to avoid getting hit. She weaved through pedestrians until she had turned back onto Hutton Street, where the traffic was considerably less heavy. Still, Mary was passed by a half a dozen cars heading towards town, and there was actually a backup at the stop sign intersection of Hutton Street and Celia Street, which led to the freeway. She had never seen cars lined up there before.

As the houses turned to fields and she could hear the birds sing again, a wave of peace washed over Mary, mingling with the cool country breeze cutting through the heat. She loved it out here. It was so tranquil, so quiet. It was like a little oasis that miraculously appeared to only her and nobody else.

The next fifteen minutes were filled with daydreaming and humming and contemplating whether to pull an apple out of her bag for lunch. No, she had already had a peach for breakfast. But she was so hungry. But her shorts were feeling a little tight, she couldn’t afford it. But she was soooo hungry.

The back and forth in her mind was abruptly cut off when the familiar rusty mailbox came into view. Her eyes came up to take in the house. What a sight for sore eyes. Her gaze swept the gables and windows, the roof and the yard, and what the fuck?

What. the. fuck.

No.

Mary couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Right in the center of her yard, a big, ugly FOR SALE sign was planted into the grass. And to make it a hundred times worse, a red stripe baring the words SOLD was slapped diagonally across.

What was happening? Nobody else was even supposed to know about this place. It was hers, hidden away and waiting for her when she needed it. So why was there a big ugly flag planted right on the lawn, marking a territory that had long been claimed as her own? It wasn’t right.

She faintly heard her bike clatter to the ground as she ran over to the sign, her mind spinning. She ran a hand over it, trying to figure out the trick. It surely wasn’t real, some kind of optical illusion, or a trick of the light. But no, the sign remained, towering high as it mocked her. A flash of red caught her attention from out of the corner of her eye. She turned towards the driveway to find a large red truck parked in the dirt.

She couldn’t think straight. She felt tears burning in the corners of her eyes. She stumbled to the oak tree, using it as a brace to keep herself up. She sunk down to the ground, shutting her eyes and leaning her head back onto the wood. Her trembling hands sunk into the earth and clawed the dirt. The thought of someone else in her house, filling her rooms with their things.

Oh my god.

Her stuff.

Her clothes and supplies and CDs and pillows and books. Oh god, her books. Her stories. Where were they? Still in the house? Surely not.

The only thing keeping her sane, keeping her alive, was this house. The hours she spent here were what kept her going. It was her sanctuary, a little pocket of safety she had carved out and kept close to her heart. Where would she go? How would she fill her free time or get a few hours of quiet or read her books? This couldn’t be happening.

“Hey little girl! Get the fuck out of my yard!”

She was jolted from her misery by a gruff, deep voice shouting at her. Her eyes snapped towards the direction of the noise, landing on the porch. A stranger stood holding the front door open with one hand and a rifle in the other. She squinted, trying to make out who it was. She didn’t think she’d ever see them before. It was a man. A very large man. A scary man who looked like he was moments away from shooting her.

She stood up, suddenly nervous due to the way the man was holding the gun. Surely he wouldn’t actually shoot her. What the fuck was going on? This had to be some kind of joke.

As she stood in the yard that used to be hers but now apparently belonged to this man, she felt like a deer in the headlights. Like she had been caught. Caught doing what? Coming to her house? At this thought, all the fear in Mary’s veins turned to anger. It coursed through her veins and burned her insides.

She stalked across the grass and up the porch steps to stand in front of where the man still held the front door open. She looked up at him as he stepped forward, letting the door swing closed, keeping her out. The rifle still hung limp in his other hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” Mary questioned, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

The man huffed out something like a laugh, but the look in his eyes was far from humored.

“Why are you askin me that? The real question is who are you, and what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere sittin in my yard like you own the place?”

Because I fucking do, Mary thought. But she didn’t, not anymore. And it made her want to sob.

Mary glared up at him, taking in his frame. He was huge. She was pretty tall, but he still towered over her. He was broad and strong, muscles rippling through his t-shirt.

He definitely had a face to match his frame. Rugged and weathered, with a hardened expression that sent a little shiver through Mary’s body. He was really handsome, but also the scariest person she had ever seen. She felt so indescribably small in front of him, shaking and barely holding back sobs but still trying to look intimidating. She probably looked fucking stupid, like a scared little girl. Which is what she was.

“I do own this place.”

What the fuck. Why did she say that? What was happening to her? She was so angry she couldn’t think straight, and apparently couldn’t talk, either. The urge to slap this man across his face was growing stronger by the second.

He chuckled again, pointing to the sign in the yard.

“Not what the sign says, little girl.”

Shame and embarrassment blushed across Mary’s face, making her skin burn and flush scarlet. All the fight within in her died and curled in on itself, like an animal of prey that knew it was caught. She looked down at her feet, unable to meet his eyes.

“Well, no that’s not what I meant . . . I mean, I used to own it. Like, I would come here, and I have a key and all my stuff is inside . . .”

She was rambling now. She couldn’t stop it. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks.

The man held up a hand in front of her face, bringing her pathetic babbling to a halt.

“Listen little girl, I don’t really care. I don’t care who you are or if you used to come here, but what I do care about is you handing me the key you apparently have to my house and runnin’ on home before your parents start worryin”

Mary was angry again. What right did he have to talk to her like this? Like she was some stupid child who had misbehaved.

“I’m not a little girl” she seethed. “My name is Mary.”

At this, the man stepped back slightly from where he had been crowding her. His face changed from demeaning to something a little more confused. Something flashed across his eyes, something dark, and Mary watched it spread across his features and settle there. He looked fucking terrifying.

His eyes searched her face for a few moments, and he looked so taken aback Mary almost asked him what was wrong. But after a few seconds he spoke again, his voice darker than before.

“Do you really have a key to my house?” he asked, and Mary was so petrified all she could do was nod.

“Where is it?”

“In my bike” She squeaked.

“Go get it.”

Mary scrambled down the steps and over to her bike, digging in her bag for the brass key that lay at the bottom. She hated the mean, angry man who was currently watching her trudge back to him from the porch. She despised him and she didn’t even know him. She didn’t even know his name, for God’s sake. She hated how scared he made her, and that he was the person she was being forced to resign her key to. She was practically fuming by the time she made her way back up the steps and reluctantly dropped her key into his waiting hand.

“Now get out of here. If I ever see you here again, little girl, I’ll shoot ya myself.”

From the way he was looking at her, Mary knew he meant it.

She glared at him with all the hatred swirling inside her, hoping he could feel it. After a few seconds, she turned around slowly and made her way back down to her bike. As she pedaled away down the road, she could feel his eyes watching her as she turned around the corner and out of sight.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The next six days dragged out in front of Mary like a movie playing on a screen. She couldn’t feel, couldn’t think, couldn’t experience things the same way she did before. Before. Before her only escape and sense of self was yanked out from under her by that man. Just the thought of him sent shockwaves of hatred through Mary’s body. She hadn’t seen him since last Monday, and she hadn’t been back to the house out of fear of being fucking shot down.

The week had been an out-of-body experience, and Mary hadn’t felt like herself. She had come back from the house to her angry parents waiting at the kitchen table. Her encounter with the man had set Mary back a good bit of time, and it had been almost dark by the time she got home.

Turns out her parents had gotten home early, and they grilled her for almost an hour about being “a good steward of the time the Lord hath granted you”. Some preachy bullshit that barely made any sense and that Andrew would surely re-use for one of his sermons. Then Margaret had hit Mary across her palms with a ruler, and when that failed to produce any tears, Andrew had slapped her across the face with his Bible.

Whenever her parents had a bad day at work Mary expected that kind of thing. She was their punching bag. She knew it wasn’t actually about her, but that thought did very little to quell the pain that shot across her body or comfort her aching heart.

When she had made her way up the stairs to her room she found the milk glass she had forgotten to take down to the sink shattered across her floor. Margaret’s doing, surely. The little jagged pieces had latched onto the bottoms of Mary’s feet and caused blood to seep from her soles and ankles into the floorboards.

So now Mary stood, shifting uncomfortably in her shoes in the shadow of her mother as Margaret chatted with one of the insufferable church ladies. It was Sunday, and her father had just finished up an hour-long sermon to which Mary had paid absolutely no attention to. Just a few words caught her attention. “Good steward” and “being timely” had caused her to chuckle darkly. Called it.

The pain in her feet was bordering on unbearable, and the itchiness of the lace that trimmed her socks brushed and chafed the scratches on her ankles. Her blue Sunday-best dress was pinching her neck and armpits uncomfortably, and the ribbons in her braids were partially falling out. She fidgeted with them as she half listened to a woman behind her whisper about her maybe-cheating husband.

She was hot - the small chapel hadn’t had working air conditioning for over five years - and the droning of her mother’s grating voice nearby was driving her crazy. As she looked around the small room, a conversation between a few men caught her attention. She shifted slightly in order to hear better.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that too”

“So he’s back?”

“Henry, keep your damn voice down! Remember where we are”

“Ah, that’s right. I wonder if he’s heard yet.”

“Probably. That old fucker always knew how to make an entrance.”

A third man entered the circle, and Mary had to lean even further to hear his hushed words.

“Y’all talkin’ about Joel?”

“Chester!” They both whisper-shouted.

“Keep your voice down!”

“Sorry” Chester whispered, lowering his tone even further.

Mary took a few steps in their direction, pretending to be interested in something out the window.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Old Joel Miller, back in Wallows.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s wild. Hardly believed it myself”

“Heard he moved into the old house. Yeah, yeah, the big one out in the fields. Haven’t thought about that place in damn near 20 twenty years.”

Mary could barely hear herself suck in a gasp over the blood roaring through her ears. She stumbled forward, reaching her hand out against the windowsill to steady herself. Surely she was hearing wrong. They were talking about her house. Well Joel’s house, apparently. Was that the name of the man she met? It had to be.

Joel Miller.

“Ya alright, sweetheart?”, she heard coming from her left.

She turned her head to where the three graying men stood huddled together, looking at her with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She mumbled. “Just . . . hot.”

The one in the middle nodded slowly.

“Well. . . alright then.” he said, and they turned back to their conversation.

Her head snapped back up to the window as something red and familiar streaked across her peripheral. Her eyes focused on what was now moving fast away from the church. A truck. A red truck. The same truck she had seen in the driveway of the house. Was the man - Joel - here? She hadn’t seen him in the service. Why else would he be here? Why had he not come in?

She turned away from the window and dashed towards the door, ignoring her mother’s stern call. She pushed open the heavy chapel doors and stumbled down the steps, racing through the parking lot after the truck.

Her chest heaved as she watched it pull away, too far gone now for her to catch up. As the red blur grew smaller down the road, only one thing echoed through her head. A mantra of her bitterness, her hatred, and her pain.

A name.

Joel. Joel. Joel. Joel.

[esotericverse]

Gibson Girl - Joel Miller x OC

Fic masterlist/summary here

Read prologue first!

CW: DDDNE, Child abuse, eating disorders

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Chapter 1

3 months later

A gentle rocking slowly tugged at Mary’s conscious until a light burned at the corners of her eyes and the sounds beyond became too loud to ignore. Her hazy mind slowly cleared and she grimaced as she remembered where she was.

The gentle humming of an engine and the low garble of music mixed with radio static drowned out the lingering remnants of sleep. She felt something cold and wet on her face, and her brows knitted when she found drool in the corner of her mouth. Gross.

A groan escaped her lips as she shifted her stiff body. The worn leather beneath her was cool and soft, but her body had contorted into quite an uncomfortable position. Pins and needles prickled at her feet as she untucked her legs, causing her to wince.

She stretched her arms high above her head, feeling the blasting AC hit her bare stomach as her upstretched arms tugged her shirt along with them. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slumped back, turning her head to look out the window.

“Where are we?” She asked, her voice still thick with drowsiness. She turned her head back to look at the man sitting next to her in the drivers seat.

Her father.

Andrew Gibson was a large man, and everything about him was harsh. The angles of his aged yet striking face, the creases in his pristine suit, and his voice as he answered her brusquely.

“The freeway. About 30 minutes to home.”

Mary nodded, shifting her body back towards the window. She hated having to be in the car with him, but at least she had slept through most of it.

30 minutes wasn’t so bad.

The freezing blasts of the AC blew all over her body, causing her to shiver. Despite the glacial temperature in the truck, she was still dressed for the hot Kentucky summer. She had cut off a pair of her old jeans to accommodate them for the sun, and they barely covered her thin legs. She hadn’t minded the length at all till now.

While she had been alone all summer, swimming in creeks and hiding under bridges and thickets of trees, what she wore was the least of her concern.

She had felt so carefree, so happy, that she forgot to feel guilty about the things that usually plagued her conscious. The crucifix she normally strung around her neck by a delicate silver chain had been discarded in a dresser drawer, freeing her of her culpability. The only time she made herself presentable was for dinner a few times a week with her grandmother.

Her Nana had softened with old age, and Mary suspected that the beginnings of dementia were creeping towards the old woman’s mind. She often forgot simple things, sometimes not even remembering Mary was staying with her, getting spooked near out of her mind if Mary slipped downstairs in the night for some water or came home too late.

Mary still hated the woman, but this summer in particular she had seemed gentler, maybe even sometimes kind. She had not once hit Mary, and had only thrown a bible at her once. As long as Mary minded her manners and showed up to dinner and church, she had been free to roam.

And oh, Mary had the time of her life. While initially hesitant to leave her beloved house behind, she had slowly settled into a peaceful rhythm on the Kentucky farm that left a pit of dread in her stomach every time she thought about leaving. She never thought she would be missing that devil woman’s house, but here she was.

She had spent the summer outdoors, exploring back roads and deep marshes, occasionally halting her adventures to read in a tree or write in her journal. She smoked out of her bedroom window, never afraid of getting caught. The smell of her cigarettes mingled with the fumes of her grandmother’s pipe, concealing her sin.

The truck hit a pothole, jerking her abruptly from her reminiscing.

“Goddamnit!” her father exclaimed, swerving the wheel sharply to the left.

The truck veered into the shoulder of the bustling freeway, pulling to a stop. The radio blared awkwardly as they sat in silence, reeling from the force of the impact. Mary clutched the armrest, trying to steady her breath.

“Don’t think the preacher should go around using the Lord’s name in vain like that”

“You don’t fuckin tell me what to do, girl”

The back of his hand came towards Mary’s face and she turned her cheek out of instinct. The impact hit her hard, and her father’s large ring that bared the cross of the Lord dug into her cheek. Tears instantly filled her eyes and she swatted them away quickly.

“You’ve been awake for 15 minutes and already starting this shit. Maybe we should just turn around and take you back.”

Wouldn’t that be nice.

She knew it was a fucking stupid thing to say as soon as it had left her mouth. Why did she always have to do this?

She turned her head towards the window as she felt the truck pull back out onto the road. She wasn’t going to bait her father anymore. She didn’t have the energy.

The scenery that whizzed by the window was vibrant, and she tried to focus her mind on that and not the burning on her cheek. She caught a glimpse of her face in the side view mirror. Yikes. She looked like total shit.

The braid she had woven her curls into was coming loose, and dark wavy locks were falling loosely around her face. The cross-shaped welt on her face was ugly and red. Her eyes were bloodshot from the tears she had tried - and failed - to stop from falling.

Mascara caked under her eyes and mixed with her tears, drying in streaks down her skin. Her lips were red and bruised from the way she constantly chewed and picked at them.

Her eyes flitted back to the pastures and barns that lined the freeway. The late-August sun still burned high in the sky. Her father had arrived at the ass-crack of dawn to haul Mary’s bags into his trunk and speed back to Wallows as fast as his piece-of-shit truck would let him.

As fast as he was going, she wished he could go faster. The quicker she could get back on her bike the better. The house and the lake awaited her. While summer had been fun, she was itching to get back up on her roof and converse with the moon again. God, she couldn’t believe she was actually excited to go back to Wallows. Never thought that would happen.

The click of the blinker and the flashing light on the dashboard indicated that the exit to home was approaching. The truck shifted over dashed white lines, pulling in front of other speeding cars until it reached the exit ramp.

The blue exit sign was faded and scratched, with the only recreations offered on the display being a Shell gas station and the Hinky Dinky grocery store. Well, the Shell only has two working pumps and the Hinky Dinky was vandalized and broken into by delinquent teenagers every other week.

Yeah, Wallows was deep in the outlands of Nebraska. The town truly had nothing to offer, and Mary often thought that if a sickness swept through and killed everyone off, nobody from the outside world would even notice. If one day the town caught fire and burned to the ground, not one person would ever drive up and find the remains.

Maybe the smoke would catch the attention of a farmer miles away. “Look at that, somebody’s having a bonfire!” He would say to his wife. She would nod, and they would watch the black tendrils swirl in the sky as the sun went down. But that’s the last time Wallows would ever impact someone else.

Maybe, by some play of fate, 10 years in the future a family would drive off the exit looking for a restroom. The sign would be long fallen. How odd, the mother would think. But she would tell the father to pull off anyway.

They would drive slowly through the ashes, the charred bones of buildings long gone still standing ominously. An eerie weight would settle over their shoulders, as the memory of people who once lived here surrounded their minivan. The mother would shudder, asking her husband to find another exit.

They would leave Wallows behind, never to be discovered again for another 10 years. Wallows was a ghost town now, and it was doomed to remain one for all of time.

Mary fucking hated it. Wallows was a prison, and she was chained to the floor with not so much as a window to offer relief.

She wanted more than anything for someone to cut through her bars and free her, because Lord knows she couldn’t do it herself. She was too broken, too tired.

Maybe a few years ago, when she was still clutching onto any shred of hope like her life depended on it. But she had let go. She wasn’t sure exactly when, only that one day she woke up without that tiny spark. The little fire that burned deep in her heart, her soul, that told her to keep going. To continue fighting, even if it was hard.

But Mary didn’t have any fight left it her. It had been beaten out of her by hands and whips and bibles. Ejected out of her stomach by her own angry finger. Snuffed out by angry words and whispered insults. She was tired.

The road shifted under the tires from pavement to dirt. She knew the sensation well. She could sense the sign for Jackson Street as she passed it, like a pair of eyes watching her.

Or maybe what she was feeling was her father’s eyes, which were boring into the side of her face. Maybe he felt guilty for the welt that was surely still raw. She doubted it.

“What?” she asked, turning to stare back at him.

His eyes quickly diverted back to the curving road. “Just. . . Don’t start anything at the house”

Mary rolled her eyes, instantly regretting it. He obviously didn’t see, or surely she would be feeling the back of his hand again.

“Your mother has been doing everything by herself all summer, and she’s going to need some help.”

Mary nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the approaching mailbox in front of her. It was old, but still stood with the little red flag waving proudly. Gibson was painted on the side in her mother’s loopy cursive.

She felt her braid being tugged back, and she gasped in pain as her heart jumped.

“You know to answer me when I tell you something” she heard in her ear.

“Ok!” She cried “Yes, yes I’ll help her!”

Her hair was released with a shove and she heard her father huff.

The fuck did he have to sigh about?

The truck pulled onto the driveway with a lurch. Years of wearing down the dirt had caused a small divot to form in the earth between the road and driveway. Mary had been shot off her bike from flying too fast over it countless times.

Her stomach clenched as the ridges and dips of the driveway bounced her in her seat. She physically cringed before looking up to see her house.

It was beautiful, that’s for sure. Large and picturesque, and quintessentially American. The wooden walls were painted a pale baby blue, and the many white gables and shutters were carved with delicate trimmings and flowers.

The windows were large and inviting, and lace curtains could be seen hanging from inside. When the sun went down, gentle candlelight would spill out of the windows and illuminate the beautiful interior.

A large porch wrapped around the exterior, and the white railing was broken up by flower boxes, with roses and carnations thriving in the late summer weather. Swings hung from the porch ceiling, and various shoes and flower vases littered the floor planks.

The lawn was immaculate, trimmed to perfection and glowing an almost too-bright green. Large, well-kept hydrangea bushes lined where the grass met the house.

The home was by far the nicest in Wallows, and the cross hanging over the large front-door, while inviting to some, seemed almost ominous to Mary. If only they fucking knew.

With her attention focused right above the door, she almost didn’t notice the woman standing in the frame. The sight of her mother sent a shock wave through Mary’s body.

Margaret Gibson was a small woman, and Mary thought she looked quite mousy. She was, honestly. Slight and slim, with delicate features. She maybe once was quite beautiful, but years of terrorizing her daughter and being a two-faced bitch had definitely aged her.

She stood with her arms crossed, a stern look across her elegant face. Her dark straw hair was pulled into a tight updo. She was wearing a long dress patterned with delicate flowers. Mary only ever saw her mother dress nicely on Sundays, usually sticking to jeans and blouses.

The truck pulled up to the side of the house next to her mother’s Jeep Grand Wagoneer. It was the newest model, and Margaret drove the damn thing in circles around town just to show it off. Mary thought it was the ugliest car she’d ever seen. It was long and brown and looked like a turd, but Mary didn’t say that.

She did get embarrassed though when Margaret insisted on driving her around town or to church instead of letting Mary ride her bike. She was seventeen years old and still didn’t know how to fucking drive.

Her father put the car in park and opened his door, not bothering to open her door or help her with her bags.

Mary pushed her door open and swung out of her seat, hopping to the ground. She grabbed her bags from the back and hauled them along the path up to the porch steps.

She saw her mother grab her father’s arm and say something in a hushed tone, and he turned away from her and stalked inside as a way of greeting. Her parents hated each other, and they had for as long as Mary had been born. She knew why, and she still hated them, but part of her wished she could have been around for a time where it was different.

“Hello Mary” Her mother greeted her on the porch, still with a scowl on her face.

“Hello Mother, I missed you”. No she hadn’t.

Margaret stood in front of her, slightly shorter than her daughter but still frightening somehow. Her harsh brown eyes roved over Mary’s body, taking in her disheveled hair and marred face. As her eyes traveled lower, her frown depended and her eyes narrowed.

“Mary, go upstairs and change your clothes. You look like a slut.”

This was typical. She should have been more thoughtful when picking her outfit. Honestly, Mary had just grabbed the first thing she saw from her small pile of remaining clean clothes. The DIY shorts that were far too short and a band t-shirt Mary had bought at the general store one day after she fell in a creek and thought it best not to return to her grandmother in a soaking wet slip.

Mary nodded and replied “Yes ma’am”, hoping that would satisfy her mother. Of course it didn’t. As she pushed through the front door into the foyer, she heard Margaret’s grating voice following behind her.

“I mean honestly Mary. I get all dressed up to welcome you home and have a nice dinner, and you show up looking like a skank. You’ve got makeup all over your face, your hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days, and you’ve barely covered yourself. And heaven knows where you got that devil shirt, I know Nana didn’t buy it for you. You should be ashamed of yourself, wearing that cross around your neck.”

The chastisement grew fainter as Mary made her way up the stairs, turning to drag her bags down the hall to her room. She still caught the end of Margaret’s rant, hearing “Lord, help that girl, she knows not what she does.”

Then to her father, “I hope you’re happy Andrew, knowing you’ve raised a wild child.”

Mary shut her door before she could hear her father’s response.

She slumped on the floor of her room, leaning back against the door and reaching up to turn the lock. She tilted her head against the wood and closed her eyes, the blood rushing to her ears drowning out the noise downstairs. Peace and quiet didn’t exist in the Gibson household.

For a house so big and spacious, Mary’s room was quite small. It had been her nursery when she was a baby, and she was pretty sure it was some kind of closet before that. Not that there weren’t other bedrooms to move to - the house had five - it was just that every time Mary brought it up she was shot down immediately.

Your room is perfectly fine, Mary.

There’s no good reason to move all your shit somewhere else.

Honestly, you’ve grown to be so ungrateful.

Girl, you’re lucky to even have a room at all.

She looked around the small space with disdain. The walls were covered with delicate floral wallpaper that had been rolled on when the room was still a nursery.

A narrow window that faced the front yard took up most of the back wall, and a wooden twin bed stood against the left wall. A small table made of the same wood as the bed stood underneath the window, baring a candlestick, a figurine of Jesus on the cross, and a brown bible.

Fixed in the right wall was a small fireplace that hadn’t been used since before Mary was born, and maybe not even then. But, if she stuck her arm up just a bit, there was a ledge large enough for a few books and her journal to be placed. Mary had discovered it when she was thirteen, and she had immediately moved her favorite books from the white house to the hidden alcove.

The books she kept there were constantly in rotation, always including her favorites but alternating whatever her current read was. Her journal was always there unless it was safely tucked in her bag. Her parents were none the wiser, and she was glad. If they ever found out, she wouldn’t be allowed leave this room for Lord knows how long.

Next to the fireplace stood a wooden dresser of six drawers, where Mary now stood throwing clothes from her bags into the open drawers, not bothering to be neat. Her mother would come through and fold them later anyway.

“Mary! Get down here for dinner.” Margaret called.

“Ok, I’m coming!”

Mary shuffled her clothes around, pulling out a dress she thought should appease her mother. Pink roses with leaves surrounding the buds patterned the soft fabric, and a rounded collar decorated the neckline. It was Margaret’s favorite. If she had gone through all this trouble to make a nice dinner, Mary might as well go along with it.

She ripped off her old clothes and pulled the dress over her head. She pulled the crucifix out from under the collar, letting it fall over her chest.

She peered into the mirror on the wall over the dresser, sighing once again at her appearance. Scars littered her arms, and she often used makeup to cover them. No use doing that here.

She licked her thumbs and rubbed them under her eyes, wiping away the mascara and rubbing her dirty hands on her discarded band shirt. She reached back to unwind her braid, letting the mass of waves fall freely over her shoulders. Her unruly mane had grown even longer over the summer. She pulled off her sneakers but left her socks on, turning in the mirror to view different angles of herself. Unsatisfied yet resigned, she turned to leave.

The Gibsons sat around their large dinner table, separated by multiple chairs in between all of them. Andrew sat at the head, and Margaret and Mary each had their own side of the round table they claimed at every meal.

Mary did her best to avoid eye contact with both of them, keeping her eyes to her plate. Her mother had seared steak and served it with mashed potatoes and large, fluffy rolls. It looked delicious, but Mary couldn’t bring herself to do much more than push it around the plate with her fork. She hoped the sound of utensils clanking and mouths chewing was loud enough to mask the low rumbles of her stomach.

“Can I turn on some music?”

“Whatever for Mary, do you not want to speak to us?”

“What? No, I didn’t say that!” She exclaimed.

“Alright, then why don’t we have a conversation? How was your summer?”

“It was fine” Mary grumbled, slumping back in her chair.

“Speak up when your mother asks you a question.” Andrew snapped, looking up from his steak for the first time all night.

“You really have no damn respect for your elders.”

Mary clenched her teeth. “It was excellent, Mother. I had a great time with Nana.”

Margaret completely ignored her strained reply, switching the subject to what Mary knew she had been itching to bring up all night.

“Well, Mary, you begin your senior year in just a week. You need to start preparing. Honestly, you should have come home and started getting ready sooner.”

Mary’s senior year of high school. It was all Margaret had wanted to discuss when she called Mary on her grandmother’s landline, her voice always distant and barely distinguishable thanks to the shitty service.

Mary had been homeschooled her whole life, and she had liked it that way. Yes, she was lonely, but she had always had a hard time making friends. She had never been accepted in Sunday school as a child, despite being the preacher’s daughter.

She was odd. She stared too much and didn’t speak often, but when she did it was always unsettling or rude. She had so many thoughts in her head, but whenever she tried to convey them to other people they got lost in translation. Her mouth had never moved as quick as her mind, and her social life paid for it.

She had a few friends at church now, but nobody she could share her thoughts with. Nobody she could tell secrets to or be herself around. Just acquaintances she survived awkward church picnics and town events with. As much as she longed to be seen, she still liked to be alone. It was peaceful, and easy. The thought of school made her stomach turn.

Margaret would do anything in her power to keep up appearances, and when she heard the church ladies whispering about how odd little Mary didn’t seem to have many friends, she suddenly decided it was time for Mary to “branch out” and “consider her future”.

It was all bullshit, Mary knew. Her parents would never let her go to college. But Margaret had gotten herself all worked up about the idea of Mary “coming of age” and had talked endlessly over the phone about how this was Mary’s “last big milestone”. Maybe she should learn to fucking drive and maybe attempt speaking to a boy first. But whatever.

Her mother’s voice had been droning on behind her thoughts, and it caught her full attention when she snapped “Mary!”

“Mary, did you hear anything I said?”

Mary stared at her across the table with a blank expression.

“I mean honestly Mary, I’m trying to help you. The least you could do is listen.”

Mary looked down at her plate in shame. She didn’t feel sorry. She hated her mother. But she shame still churned in her stomach, making her feel sick. Her mother had a way of making her feel small and stupid no matter what she did.

“I was listening” Mary mumbled.

“Then what did I say?”

Another blank stare.

“I said that tomorrow I need you to go into town with me and get some school supplies.”

Mary perked up at this. The perfect opportunity to escape for a few hours. Margaret noticed the way Mary’s eyes lit up and a surprised smile played on the edges of her usually stern mouth.

“Could I go by myself? I can take my bike.”

Her mother’s ghost of a smile disappeared, her mouth returning to its normal straight line.

“Well . . . I suppose. You are seventeen now, you should be learning to do things for yourself.”

Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Since when did her mother say yes to her?

“You’ll have to be careful with the money, if you lose it you’ll just have to do without any supplies at all.”

Mary nodded eagerly. “Yes, ok, I’ll be careful, I promise. I’ll keep it in my bag. Can I stop by the library?”

“I don’t like the sound of that” Andrew’s voice came from the end of the table.

Mary scoffed. “Are you kidding me? I’ll be an adult next year! I can take my bike into town for a few hours!”

He stood up quickly, his chair scraping back loudly and his fist coming down on the table.

“You better-“

Margaret jumped up, holding her hands out between the two.

“Enough!” She shrieked. “We haven’t even been together for two hours and you two are already at it!”

She turned to Andrew, seething.

“You make everything impossible. We can’t even have a nice dinner together after our daughter has been gone for three months!” Her voice became shriller and louder with every word. Her anger was directed at Mary next. “And you, you ungrateful little bitch.”

Mary was taken aback by her mother’s harsh words. She was used to them, but she really hadn’t thought she’d been too bad tonight.

“I slave in the kitchen for hours making something nice for you, just for you to only take two damn bites. You don’t listen when I speak even though I’m only trying to help you, and then you mouth off to your father the second you hear something you don’t like!”

Margaret was hysterical at this point, waving her arms around like a mad woman while her father watched with a look of disgust on his face.

“You don’t want to eat my food, you barely speak to me, you wont even let me shop for school supplies with you. I do everything for you, and what do I get in return? Ungratefulness and a disgusting attitude. Jacob would have - “

Her father’s fist slammed into the table again, sending shock waves through the tense room.

“Margaret, shut your damn mouth” He spat out.

She instantly sank back into her seat, knowing full well she had gone too far.

“Mary, you get upstairs to your room right this second. If I see or hear you before tomorrow morning I’ll make sure you won’t even want to be seen by your mother”

Mary pushed back from the table, shocked by what just happened. The room had been somewhat peaceful just minutes ago.

She stumbled out the dining room and up the stairs, running to her room and locking the door behind her. She stood in the middle of the small space, staring blankly at the cross above her bed. What the fuck just happened.

This was how it always was with her parents. They would act normal enough for a while, almost like real humans and not devils in disguise. But then something would set them off, and the anger and hatred that simmered just below their fake exteriors would spill over. It was usually aimed at her.

Her father was easy to read. He was a self-righteous, egotistical man who carried hate and anger in his heart that he had no idea what to do with. Most of the time he took it out on his daughter, and occasionally his wife.

But he was respected in the community. He was the preacher, for heaven’s sake. Nobody would believe the things these walls had seen. She supposed at one point he must have been a godly man. But the devil had crept into every facet of him and taken hold, until he was only a shell of a man, left with nothing but demons swirling beneath his skin.

Her mother though, was harder for Mary to understand. She often thought of her mother in two different ways. One of them was the version Mary had created in her mind when she was younger. This version of Margaret Gibson was a coping mechanism of Mary’s, conjured in her mind to make the knife of her words and hands a little less sharp.

This version of Margaret was the one Mary found herself empathizing with, some kind of tragic anti-hero trapped by circumstance. Once a kind woman, married to a kind man who slowly turned evil, taking her down with him. She had no choice, Mary told herself. But that wasn’t true. Margaret was smart, and capable. Mary had watched her hold her hold her own many times.

That was the other version of her. A woman who consciously chose to harm her daughter, however burdened and sad she may be. Mary knew her mother walked through life with a heavy heart. She saw it in her eyes.

Maybe in another lifetime, in some alternate universe Margaret would tell Mary what plagued her mind, what anger and regret she held behind her beautiful eyes. She would learn Margaret’s past, learn the things that made her the woman she is today.

But that was nothing but a fantasy. In this life, Mary was left only speculate what burdens her mother was forced to bear, and to wonder what she did to deserve her wrath.

The exhaustion of the day began to creep through her. She was tired, and her heart and body were aching. She slipped off her dress and replaced it with a nightgown.

Before she collapsed on her bed, She grabbed her leather bag and slipped a small stack of books out. Northanger Abbey, The Phantom of the Opera, and The Great Gatsby, all stolen from Nana’s shelf.

She slipped them up onto the fireplace shelf on top of Persuasion and Jane Eyre . The stack was getting too big. She would have to move some to the house tomorrow.

She grabbed her journal and lodged it in between the books and the side of the wall. Tossing her bag into the corner of her room, she slumped onto her bed, burying herself in the quilt.

The cool pillow and soft mattress enveloped her frame and felt like a warm hug. When was the last time she had one of those?

As her mind slowed in preparation for sleep, the events of dinner played out in front of her eyelids again. It was honestly a typical night with her parents, but something about it felt different. Shouldn’t they be at least a little glad to see her?

No, she had to stop. She couldn’t keep doing this to herself. Every time she wished or expected something different from them, she was always disappointed.

Why had her mother brought up Jacob? That was low, and she knew the only reason she’d done it was to anger her father. But why would she want to upset him? It’s always what she was telling Mary not to do. Had they been in a fight before she arrived? This time of year was always hard on them, and her as well, if she was being honest. Their anger and sadness spilled out on their only remaining child, making her more of a target.

It was too much for her tired head to wrap around tonight. She could ponder it in the morning. She let the promise of sleep take over as she sunk deeper into her mattress, safe under the covers, at least for now.

Next chapter

[esotericverse]

Gibson Girl - Joel Miller x OC

Fic masterlist/summary here

CW: DDDNE, physical violence, child abuse, eating disorders

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Prologue: House in Nebraska

Mary swung her leg over the seat of her bike and kicked off of the dirt under her, her feet finding the pedals. The dusty earth beneath her clouded up around her bare legs, billowing around her bike tires as her bleeding feet began pumping the pedals steadily.

She tossed her small bag into the basket tied to her handlebars as her aching legs picked up the pace, spurring her forward quicker. Her fingers trembled and shook as she gripped the textured rubber on the handles, and she squeezed them harder until her knuckles turned white.

Her unsteady hands caused the bike to swerve slightly as it hurtled down the dirt road. As she sped faster, the brittle grass and loose dirt swirled beneath her. The wounds and scratches on her legs began to itch as the dirt settled into them.

The blazing beginning-of-summer sun beat down on her back, causing the slashes that peeked from beneath her flimsy dress to throb.

She felt a trickle of blood creep down the back of her neck, sticking to her sweat-damp hair. The intoxicating mix of pain, fear, and adrenaline that coursed through every one of her veins made her body tremble and shake. She shook her head, trying to snap out of her manic.

She pumped her legs harder, up and down and up and down. Anything to make her go faster. To get her away from what lay behind.

From behind her she heard a loud crash. The sound detonated through her nervous system, causing her to jump. Her left foot slipped off of the pedal, and as it spun in a fast circle it came back up to slam into her shin

“Shit!” She cried, and as soon as the sound left her mouth her hand flew up to slap over it.

The lack of control over the left side of her handlebar caused her other hand to jerk unsteadily, and her bike flew to the side.

She tumbled to the ground with a thud, her left leg trapped under a wheel. She exclaimed again, this time an anguished cry as the pain of her fall caught up to her.

She scrambled under the searing hot metal, desperate to get it off of her already-sensitive skin. She threw the bike off of her and rolled over, the scratchy grass under her back and the blazing sun above her not offering much relief. She lay there for a few seconds, eyes closed and mind hazy.

All of a sudden, another loud noise jerked her mind back to its surroundings. The unmistakable sound of a shitty engine firing up sent sparks of panic through every inch of Mary’s body. The sound was distant, but she would recognize it anywhere. She heard it every day, and the reaction it caused her was hard-wired into her brain. Usually it meant safety. It meant danger was leaving, and it wouldn’t be back for nine short yet glorious hours. But today, it meant danger was coming her way. Hurtling towards her, rumbling closer every minute.

She jolted up, eyes swinging around her. She knew this road like the back of her hand, she traveled it at least five times every day. This long stretch of dust, grass, and trees was the only thing that barred her from the rest of civilization. The mile and a half that stretched before her was the separation between her and safety. Make it to the other side, and nothing could hurt her. Usually.

The line of trees to either side of her offered little shelter or protection, as the trunks were thin and spaced out. But it was better than where she laid right now, spread out in broad daylight.

As the sound of the truck she knew was coming grew louder, her survival instincts kicked in.

She grabbed her bike, hauling it into the dried up creek bed that dipped between the main road and the outcropping to the side. Brown, crumbling leaves and pine straw littered the small valley, and she shoveled them over her bike frantically. It wasn’t completely covered, but the sound of engine rumbling was getting closer to the bend in the road that obscured her view from the length she had just traveled.

She leapt over her partially covered bike into the length of forest that lined the entire road.

She sped through the grove and dove behind a dense clump of trees and bushes. Panting and gasping, she sank into the ground, pulling herself into a tight ball. The leaves above her offered cherished relief from the brutal sun, and the earth beneath her was cool. She tried to steady her breathing, slowly expanding her lungs and pushing the air out of them as quietly as she could.

She could feel the sobs building inside her, but she swallowed them. Now was not the time. She wasn’t out yet.

The truck grew louder and louder, and the sound of the engine and the tires against the dirt pummeled against Mary’s ears. As it pulled closer, she could hear the staticky radio blaring the gospel station. The lively tune floated through the summer air, piercing the otherwise peaceful day with praises to the Lord.

She trembled as she lay sideways on the cool ground. She pulled herself closer and squeezed her eyes tight as a disobedient tear dripped down her face, collecting sweat and grime as it rolled across her nose and fell to the ground.

The truck was passing her now, she could tell. The sound was deafening, and she could feel the reverberations of the large tires as they turned against the road. She didn’t have to look to know. She could picture it clear as day in her mind.

The white paint was freckled with mud and dust, and several dents and scrapes marred its body. The windows were rolled down, she could tell by how loud the music was now.

But to Mary’s shock, the sounds of the truck did not stop. The roll of the tires did not falter. The door did not slam, and the keys did not jangle. The engine continued to rumble, but it grew distant.

She did not believe what she was hearing. There was no way her bike went unspotted. No way her rebellious presence was not felt, that her pounding heartbeat and deafening breaths did not give her away. She lay in the same position, not brave enough to move.

Minutes ambled by, but Mary did not move. It was only after the birds had long picked up their song and the squirrels began to rustle above her again did Mary dare to budge.

Eventually the blood stopped roaring through her ears and the pounding in her head calmed. Her body stopped shaking, and she hesitantly stretched out. She rolled onto her back and let her long limbs spread around her, stretching them out as far as they would reach. She winced at the stiffness in her back and hips, and she twisted slightly to crack her joints, sighing as the pressure was released.

She opened her eyes, gazing up at the blue sky, which was slightly obstructed by green leaves. She liked being under their cover, liked that they dulled the harshness of the sun. It was still hot, but slightly less unbearable.

As she slowly regained her right mind, something wormed the back of her conscious. Just as she had relaxed, her whole body tensed again.

Fuck, she thought, not even pausing to feel guilty at her crude choice of words.

She groaned as she sat up, her whole body protesting the movement. But she forced herself to stand up, using the nearest tree to steady herself.

Spots danced around her vision and the edges of her brain fuzzed. She was thirsty, hot, and slightly delirious from the fear and anxiety. Still, she stumbled forward, one mangled foot in front of the other as she quickly made her way back where she came from. As she stood at the edge of the thicket, she squinted and shielded her eyes as the sun hit her again at full force.

The heat made her feel queasy, and she felt like vomiting as she walked to the dip of the creek bed. As she bent over to sweep the covering off of her bike, she felt an uncomfortable tug in her stomach.

Before she could react, her stomach contracted and she turned her head away from her bike as her breakfast fell onto the ground in front of her. A pile of what once was oatmeal lay in front of her feet, and she smiled with satisfaction. Her body now frequently rid itself without her having to force it, and it made her proud how well she had trained herself. Her body now knew any excessive provisions were unwanted, and rid itself of them before she could do it herself. She picked up a pile of straw and threw it over the waste, quickly continuing to uncover her bike.

She had removed her bike from the bed and lay it on the side of the road, and she was now hunting for the contents of her small messenger bag, which had spread themselves all throughout the leaves. She turned the brown bag upside down, letting the bits of dirt and leaf crumbles fall to the ground before she strung the leather strap over her shoulder, leaving it open so she could return the contents inside.

The first thing she spotted was her lighter, the silver glinting under the sun. The metal was hot, and she threw it quickly in her bag.

Her book lay open, the pages facedown against the dirt. She had no idea how it had fallen that way, but grabbed it, dusting it off and checking the pages frantically. It was brand new, and she would be furious with herself if she allowed it to get dirty. Only a few smudges of dirt marred the pages it fell on, but she didn’t mind too much, she decided. It was like a little reminder, a souvenir of an adventure she was sure she’d laugh at eventually.

Her little towel was the most affected, the coarse white fabric patched with brown. She sighed and went to set it in the bike basket, not wanting it to get the inside of her bag dirty. Her little digital camera caught the corner of her eye, the screen reflecting brightly. She brushed it off and slid it in next to her lighter.

She knelt on the ground, shifting the leaves around to look for her cigarettes. She found the box open, a few of them scattered. God, she could use a cigarette right now.

She found her key next to her journal and pen close by, and with the last of her things safely in her bag she fastened it shut, double checking the buckle before she hauled her bike up.

She once again swung her leg over the seat, pushing off and maneuvering back onto the road. She pedaled slower, more leisurely this time. Without the threat of a loud engine behind her, she took the time to enjoy the ride. The almost daily trip she took was her time, where she let her body relax and mind wander. As she ambled along the road, she let the song of the bluebirds and the gentle breeze that had picked up to lull her into a more peaceful state. The sun had dipped slightly in the summer sky, and the sweltering heat was cut by the cool promise of evening.

Her thoughts drifted, thinking of her destination. It had been longer than usual - three days - since she had last gone. She was itching for it, aching to be able to relax. As the excitement grew in her, she was pulled from her daydream when the end of the road approached.

She put her foot down to halt her bike, and swiveled her head from left to right. She had reached the end of her purgatory, the strange space that separated her from the rest of Wallows, the Nebraska town she was born and raised in.

The street sign to her right read Jackson, and the intersecting sign above read Hutton. Hutton Street ran perpendicular to Jackson Street, and if she turned left it would take her right to the center of town. If she went straight, she would end up in mostly neighborhoods, and if she ventured even further she’d be turned onto larger roads that led to the freeway. She had never dared go anywhere near there, and she didn’t plan on it. But if she went right, Hutton Street would narrow and bend, winding towards open fields and rolling country. That’s where she was headed.

She checked again for oncoming cars, but there were none. There usually weren’t. She swung her handlebars right, pedaling and picking up the pace quickly. If anyone saw her, she wouldn’t make it very far. She’d have to stop to chat, or come in for dinner or lemonade or cookies, which she had no intention of doing. Just the thought of being halted caused her legs to work faster. As she whipped past humble houses with white fences and small flower gardens, she heard a voice behind her.

“Mary!” a sweet woman’s southern lilt called.

She knew who it was. It was Mrs. Grant, a lonely old widow who Mary had befriended her sophomore year of high school. When Mrs. Grant’s husband had died, Mary had been instructed to bring cookies and a Bible to her house, and the old woman had taken a great liking to her. Mary had been coming over to her house every Saturday since then. That was almost a year ago, and Mrs. Grant still always managed to have something new to talk to Mary about.

Mary knew she was far enough away to ignore Mrs. Grant. Next time she saw her she would feign innocence, and claim to have not heard her.

She continued to pedal, but it still sent a pang of guilt straight to Mary’s heart. She loved Mrs. Grant. The old lady was a huge gossip, and Mary was the first to be informed of every mishap, scandal, and disagreement that took place in Wallows.

She had grown to look forward to her Saturdays in the small, cozy house. Mrs. Grant loved her, and Mary loved her back. Mary’s only living grandmother lived hours away in a farm in Kentucky, and Mary only saw her when she was forced to spend summer with her. But Mary hated the old woman, she was bitter and mean and hated Mary right back.

Mrs. Grant called to her again, but if Mary stopped now, nothing good would come of it. She was anxious and irritated, and she knew she would snap at the sweet lady. That’s the last thing Mary wanted to do.

She also knew that the dirt and grime coating her body would raise too many questions, not to mention gashes all over her back, arms, and legs that her thin dress did little to cover. No, she couldn’t stop now. So Mary continued to pedal until she could no longer hear Mrs. Grant calling her name.

The sun was much lower in the sky than it was when Mary first started off down Jackson Street. She guessed it was probably around four o’clock.

Having made it past the most inhabited part of Hutton Street, her pace had significantly slowed. Her legs were aching now, and every pedal was an effort. She was so close, and although the adrenaline had worn off she was propelled by her anticipation.

She was fully in the country now, and the beautiful surroundings were almost enough to distract her from the aches that shot through her tired body. The rolling hills and grazing cows were speckled with farmhouses that sat majestically in the distance, and large barns stood sturdily in the fields. As she continued further down the road, which had slowly turned back into dirt, the houses became a little more pitiful, and the barns shifted from red to rotting.

Eventually, there were no houses or cows, and the grass became a little less green. It had been about 3 miles since Mary had last seen a building of any kind when her destination came into view.

The whole ride only lasted about 30 minutes, but the events and circumstances of this particular trip made it feel like hours. She almost sobbed with relief when she caught a glimpse of her house.

Well, she supposed it wasn’t actually hers. But she liked to imagine it was. Who else’s would it be? She was the only person who had stepped foot into it for at least 15 years, and she knew that for a fact.

Mrs. Grant had told her after the last residents had moved out, no one dared to buy it. After years of failing to find new owners, the house had been abandoned. She wasn’t sure why, not even Mrs. Grant knew what had happened.

But Mary didn’t mind, because it meant that she had the expansive house all to herself. It was so far from town nobody would ever have a reason to come out here, and because of some strange unspoken curse, she didn’t think anyone would want to anyway.

The house was huge, sprawling across the large hill it sat on. Due to its neglect over the years, the white paint was yellowing and completely faded in some places, and the rot that crept over its walls was evident from even far away. The blue shutters that framed the large windows were mostly missing, and the ones that remained were barely hanging on. The porch that wrapped around the dilapidated exterior was unsteady, and if a misstep were to happen, Mary knew she would fall through the termite-eaten planks. The doors were squeaky and the floors creaked, but she didn’t care. This was her place.

As she pedaled past the rusty mailbox and up to the driveway, she cut across the giant expanse of not-quite-green grass that separated the house from the road.

She propped her bike up against the back side of the giant oak tree in the front lawn and sprinted up to the front door. She pulled the key hastily from her bag and unlocked the front door.

She bolted inside, twisted the lock behind her, and flew up the large staircase in the foyer three steps at a time. She hurtled to the left and slipped into the room she had claimed as her own. A mildewed mattress sat in the corner with a faded floral sheet draped over it pathetically.

Mary collapsed onto the mattress and moaned in pleasure as her agonized body met the soft surface. She closed her eyes, letting her need for rest take over.

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When her hazy mind began swimming back to consciousness, her first thought was pain. Pain everywhere. In her head, her body, her heart.

She felt a cry burst out of her mouth, and before she knew it, her body was being racked by sobs. She couldn’t stop them, couldn’t contain the way her body was convulsing on the mattress, only causing more pain on her burning skin. She cried and cried until no more tears would come.

Her head was throbbing, and she could feel her pulse all over her body. She felt clammy and gross, and the room she slept in was stifling. She hadn’t thought to open the window before she fell asleep. She pulled herself up, and as she trudged over to the window she looked out to see that it was almost dark.

Shit, she thought again.

How could she have let herself sleep for so long? She had lost precious daylight, and now her absence would just be harder to explain.

She slid the lock at the bottom of the window free and pulled it up. She bent down and crawled out, stepping onto the roof and into the cool dusk air.

A blanket and lantern still lay from the last time she had been out here. The little roof alcove was her favorite part of the house. It was slightly hidden by a gable that stuck out of the left side of the house, and just big enough for her to spread out comfortably.

She basked in the refreshing breeze until her burning injuries became too angry to ignore. She climbed back into her room, leaving the window open.

She trekked across the room and opened to door to the adjoining bathroom. There was no running water in the house, but she still liked to keep things in the various cabinets and shelves anyway.

Sometimes when the heat was too unbearable even for the roof, she would open the bathroom window and sleep in the bathtub. She was tall, but not enough that she couldn’t curl up comfortably.

The mirror over the non-functioning sink was dusty and cracked, and she swiped her forearm over it to clear away the grime, wincing as a crack in the glass caught on her soft skin.

She braced herself for what she knew would see, and she cringed as she looked up into the mirror. The girl looking back at her was someone that Mary did not always recognize, and certainly not someone she liked. Her appearance had changed over the past year, and having to face herself was something she had come to dread.

Her face had become gaunt, and her cheekbones, once cushioned by juvenile plumpness, now jutted out harshly. Her large green eyes that used to be so sparkly and full of life were now sunken in and ringed by purple. For a girl of only seventeen years, her eyes held the pain of someone much older, and the sadness amplified in them startled her as she gazed into them.

Her pale skin made her look ghastly, and the effect was only enhanced by the contrast of the dark waves that cascaded down her shoulders and past her breasts.

She knew deep down somewhere that she was pretty, because she had heard it her whole life. Compliments from adults, peers, even strangers. But she had a hard time believing it. She hated the way she looked. Her face was a reminder of where she came from, which she did everything to escape. But she couldn’t escape herself.

She pushed her mane of hair, now frizzy and matted with dirt and twigs, behind her shoulders to inspect her body. She wore a white shift dress that fell just above her red, bruised knees, and the thin straps hung limply over her bony shoulders. She was a bit taken aback by just how bad her injuries were. She knew it was bad, but she didn’t expect it to be this bad. Now the excruciating pain made sense.

She tenderly pulled the dress over her body, wincing as the fabric brushed against raw skin. She let it fall to the floor beside her feet.

Standing in nothing but a pair of panties, her eyes roved over her body, taking in every inch judgmentally. Her bones stuck out at odd angles, ribs pushing out against her ghost-white skin.

No matter how long she lay out in the sun, her stubborn body refused to darken. She was ever envious of the sun-kissed glow the other girls returned to school with every year. She looked like all the blood had been sucked from her.

She turned her gangly arms, which hung awkwardly, and sucked in a sharp breath. Her critique of her figure was halted by the gashes she had full view of now without the obstruction of her dress.

She turned her body, trying to number the lashes across her arms, torso, and legs. She quickly lost count. Some were small, only scratches. But others were large. And deep. She knew they would leave scars. This wasn’t even the worst of it. She couldn’t even see her back.

She ran a finger across a particularly deep cut that lay jagged across her collarbone. The whip had probably caught it from behind, wrapping around her shoulder and digging in. She whimpered at the touch, face contouring in pain. She needed to get these cleaned fast, before an infection set in.

She turned to the cabinet she kept her backup towels in. The one still tucked in her bike basket outside was unusable. She pulled one out, setting it on the lid of the toilet that hadn’t been used in years. Bending down carefully, she pulled a glass bottle of rubbing alcohol out from under the sink along with a fresh bar of soap. She crept back out the door and made her way out of the her room.

As she made her way down the stairs, her feet caused creaks with every step. It never bothered her during the day, but it seemed almost haunting in the dark. Still, the house never scared her.

She made her way out the front door and leapt across the lawn to the back of the house, heading towards the lake. Partially obscured by reeds and marsh grass, the midnight blue water shimmered and rippled under the full moon, which had now fully emerged.

She laid her supplies on the grassy shore and pulled off her panties. Making her way to the edge of the water she slowly stuck a foot in, gasping at the cold water.

It was going to be painful either way, she figured, so she screwed up her face in preparation and dove in. She gasped at the coldness against her tender wounds. Her mouth filled with water and she pushed to the surface, sputtering and coughing.

She swam to the shore, grabbing for the soap that lay on top of the towel. She ran it over her shoulders, wincing as it made contact with her skin. She lathered it between her fingers and ran them over her face, letting the soap wash away the dirt and sweat and smeared mascara.

She dunked her head under and came up again, already feeling better. She ran the soap over the rest of her body, ignoring the pain. After her body was clean and she had tamed and washed her hair, she crawled out of the water and spread her towel out on the shore.

She sat down and screwed open the bottle of rubbing alcohol. As she slowly cleaned every wound, her screams and cries of pain were swallowed by the night air.

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Later that night Mary lay on the roof, fully clean and changed into a nightgown she found in the closet. It was too late for her to go home now, she would have to spend the night here. Her body was still in pain but it had dulled to an ache.

She was wrapped in a blanket with a lantern next to her. The light danced across her face as she intently read the book spread in her lap.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë had captivated her from the first page and was slowly becoming a new favorite of hers. The story had grabbed her and drawn her in, and she felt she couldn’t tear her eyes from the pages.

Yet, as she read, the familiar little pang in her heart began to blossom. She tried to remind herself that it was only a story, that nothing like that ever happened outside the pages of a book. But her traitorous heart wouldn’t accept it. She still clung to the secret desire within her.

She wanted to be loved, to be desired in the way she had only ever read about. She wanted a love like Catherine and Heathcliff’s, passionate and intense and destructive.

She didn’t want to marry a nice boy from Wallows and settle down and have six children and attend church every Sunday and succumb to a vacuous, loveless existence. She wanted adventure, and passion, and excitement. She wanted to feel as if she was really living and not just observing the world around her, watching from the outside looking in.

But that was silly, just a fantasy she allowed herself to indulge in only when she opened the pages of her books. Thoughts like these always crept in when the sun went down, as if the moon was a bad influence, egging on the desires she tried so hard to suppress.

Sure enough, as she shifted her position, pangs of hurt shot all over her body, snapping her out of her little dream world. She wasn’t loved, and she certainly wasn’t desired. She had herself, and her stories, and her house, and that would have to be enough.

She closed her book and slipped it under the pillow she had brought out with her. She leaned over and blew out her lantern. As she settled down onto the roof, cocooned in blankets, she felt the most comfort she had in weeks.

How pathetic, She thought ruefully, my only friend is a fucking house.

And it was true. The house felt like a friend, the only constant in a world of tumult and fear. But this was the last time she would be here for a long time. For months, actually. The thought brought new tears to Mary’s eyes, but she willed them away spitefully. She would make the most of her last night here, she had to be back down Jackson Street before the sun rose tomorrow.

“Goodbye, old friend” She murmured as she began to drift off. “I‘ll see you when the summer is gone”

To be continued . . .

Next chapter

[esotericverse]

Gibson Girl - Joel Miller x OC

WIP/Current WC - 14.8k

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MAJOR CW for this, please check AO3 tags or individual chapter warnings!

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Summary

Mary Gibson has lived her whole life under the domineering hands of her cruel parents and the stifling confines of her small Nebraska town, Wallows. The lonely preachers daughter finds solace only in stories, the books she smuggles under pillows transporting her to a better place. She spends hours in a long abandoned house that sits outside of town, and the dilapidated rooms become her only shelter from the cruel world outside. But one day she returns from a summer at her grandmothers to find the house sold. The place that was once hers is now inhabited by a frightening, brooding man - Joel Miller. From the moment she meets him, she hates Joel. She despises him for taking away the only thing that was hers. But as her loathing for Joel slowly morphs into obsession, she hears whispers from the residents of Wallows. Joel has been here before, and there is a reason he is back. Something lurks under the surface of every interaction she has with Joel, and the streets of Wallows taunt her with the secrets they keep. Nothing is as it seems, and as her involute relationship with Joel pulls her closer to the truth, she realizes she is teetering on the edge of something sinister, something far bigger than herself or the town of Wallows.

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Chapter List

Prologue: House in Nebraska

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

More coming soon!

[esotericverse]

[esotericverse]

he said to be cool but i’m already coolest