Trashed and Scattered

Peyton grumbled awake, the house wreaking of paint fumes and resignation. As her eyes fluttered open, her heart leaped from its docile rest and pulsed blood through her veins with a hasty urge. She shot straight up, grasping at her chest through her paint-stained tank top, searching the room for familiar ghouls.
The house was still and silent, baiting her into a calm panic. Taking as much air as she could fit into her exasperated lungs, she scolded herself for being so ridiculous. Every morning was the same; she'd awaken slowly and then all at once. There were some things, she'd decided, that you just couldn't shake...no matter how hard you tried.
Horror used to shake her into consciousness when she was still a child. More often that not, that horror was a demon taking temporary shape of a mother. The residual haunting had lasted well into her teens, until it slowly faded out into nothingness.
She chalked it up to being back in the toxic environment; vulnerability stretching far beyond each sheltered corner. She expected her mother to turn up every second of every day, which had her quills at the ready at all times. Her muscles ached from the prolonged tension but she was avid to keep up her guard. She wasn't a child anymore; she could fight back.
Muttering indescribable obscenities, she shifted from her place on the air mattress and down the hall into the kitchen. Fumbling with the loose cupboard doors, she pulled the coffee from its shelf and dumped a triple dose into the brand new machine.
She'd gone out and purchased some necessities for her life; a new coffee maker, a mug that wasn't chipped or missing its handle, and new bedding. The intention was honorable; she was growing tired of sleeping on an inflated bed. But every time she climbed the stairs, balled up bedsheets in hand, she lost her moxie. There was something ominous about her bedroom that she just couldn't quite bring herself to move into.
She'd left her mother's bedroom entirely untouched. She hadn't so much as turned the knob of the door. It was still too soon and she wasn't ready yet to know her mother. So, keeping in the true nature of her memory, the door remained sealed.
The murmuring of the brewing coffee put Peyton at ease. She leaned against the cupboards, smugly making note of how very in control she'd become. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined she'd one day wake up and casually make herself a cup of coffee. It was unimaginable to her that she'd have ever even returned to this place. But there she was; and the aroma was therapeutic.
Her cell phone shook the stillness of the house; arousing Peyton's senses once more. As her skin crawled from the disturbance, she bounded back down the hall in search of the noise. After years of effort, she still couldn't get a handle on her avoidance of sound. She knew it was from all those years of deafening screeches and blood-curdling screams, most of which had escaped from her own set of youthful lungs.
"Hello?" she breathed hurriedly into the phone.
"Well hello yourself," Joanna's bubbly voice sounded back at Peyton.
She sighed, feeling a warm smile tugging at her lips, "What's up, Jo?"
"On break," she said, leaned up against the base of a tree. "Thought I'd check in on you...See how your trip through the trauma's panning out."
"Subtle," Peyton laughed. "It's...fine."
"Make any new friends?" she asked. "Anyone I should be jealous of?"
Peyton shook her head, taking her phone back with her into the kitchen just in time for the brew to finish its roast, "Negative. I'm a prisoner of manual labor; I don't get out."
"You're like that at home, too," she noted with a sly grin. "Why don't we just call a spade a spade, Pey? You're a hermit."
"I don't need to change my ways," Peyton retorted, dumping two spoonfuls of sugar into her clean mug. "I'm perfect as I am."
"Perfect," Joanna repeated casually, "psychotic...Same difference, right?"
"Joanna," Peyton laughed. "Dont--"
Her friend cut her off with a playful tone, "Don't antagonize. I know."
"And yet..."
"Maybe you'll make a friend at that convention," Joanna suggested thoughtfully. "Don't you broody artists tend to flock together?"
Peyton smirked, "To the contrary. Artists are notoriously tortured, Jo. What about that screams group activity?"
"Damn," Joanna laughed lightly. "Missed observation on my part. My bad."
"I'll let it slide," Peyton grinned deviously. "Just this once."
"I'm so grateful," she griped. "That's tomorrow though, right? That convention?"
Peyton shrugged to herself, "I don't know. What day is it? What year?"
"Your lack of organization is nothing short of infuriating," the queen of responsibility chimed.
"It's tomorrow," Peyton relented.
"So you'll be missing in action all day tomorrow then?" Joanna clarified for herself, making a mental note to call and annoy Peyton with the buzzing as much as humanly possible.
"Yes," Peyton answered shortly. "And I'm leaving my phone at the house. So don't even try it."
"Damn you!" she growled. "Ruining all my fun."
"Find your own fun," Peyton poked. "Perhaps in your schoolwork...Which I'm sure you should be doing as we speak."
"Yeah, yeah," Joanna sighed. "I have classes all day...I'll get to it."
Peyton smiled, "But instead, you're badgering me with your attention?"
"Badgering, blessing...Potato," Joanna giggled.
"Lucky me."
"So what's on your agenda today?" Joanna asked, stuffing her textbooks one by one back into her bag. "Just enjoying the warmth that is California? It rained all day yesterday so everything is all damp today..." as she stood, she ran her hands over the dampened back of her jeans, "Ugh. And now my ass is wet."
Peyton stifled a condescending laugh, "Why is your ass wet, Jo? I thought you weren't into anal shit."
"Don't be gross," her friend warned. "I took my break in the courtyard. Anyway...Don't let my wet ass deter you from the real conversation. Just how hot is it in California?"
Peyton grabbed her coffee from the counter, pouring a few splashes of cream into it as she passed the fridge and headed out the back door. She was met with the blinding light that was the Orange County sun. Her retinas exploded within her skull.
"It's warm," Peyton replied, shielding her eyes with her free hand. "Sunny as shit."
"God damn you, Winchester," Joanna groaned. "I want to be where it's sunny."
"You're welcome to come here and help scrub walls and shit," Peyton countered as she took a sip of her morning java.
Joanna scoffed, "And ruin my nails? Yeah, no thank you."
"Prissy," Peyton teased.
"I have to run," Jo sighed. "I have to go learn about cognitive impairments. Should make for an absolutely thrilling afternoon."
Peyton laughed, "You can enjoy that for the both of us."
"Oh, I will," her friend replied sarcastically. "Go meet a boy or something. Get out of that house; I don't need you coming back here all fragile and timid."
"Yeah," she chuckled. "That's me. Real fragile."
Joanna groaned, "You know what I mean. I'm hanging up now."
"I'm also hanging up now," Peyton smirked, flipping her phone shut.
She stared out into the yard that used to host her play. It was the one escape she'd found on the property where her mother was reserved to hunt her out in. Even Allison had her limits; watchful eyes of the neighbors seemed to be just that. Abuse was best kept private, Peyton supposed.
The grass was growing over and the playhouse her father had built was all but delapitated. At the sight of it, Peyton knew without a doubt that her mother didn't give a single shit about her.
Peyton squatted down into the questionable wooden chair that she'd adopted as her own each morning over the past week. It wobbled with her light weight, and she was sure in time it would fall into nothing but splinters. But, for the time being, it offered up a decent enough resting place for her tired body.
A noise over the fence caught her attention. It was distinct conversation, the voices just barely out of reach of familiarity. She found herself wondering if the same family lived in the white house next door. She wondered if their son was still there...Bounding around their house causing havok.
"He's twenty-four," she reminded herself quietly. "He doesn't live there anymore."
A part of her was curious about where he'd ended up. They hadn't kept in contact over the years, which was entirely her fault. She'd written him a letter once and stuffed it into the red mailbox on the corner of her street. But her father had instructed her not to scribble down a return address; he told her it was best if they faded into memory.
She'd written him sporadically over the following few years after she'd moved, but had always found a reason not to send them off. Perhaps it was because she thought her father was right, or perhaps she was afraid she wouldn't be able to let go. She had to sever the tie binding her to her old life; and that included her best friend. But the letters acted like an abstract form of a personal diary. It wasn't strange like talking to yourself about yourself, but rather expressing yourself through an exagerated monologue.
Peyton wondered if he thought of her. If he hated her for leaving him behind and for never reaching out afterwards. She assured herself that her existence had faded into the back of his mind over time. Perhaps he'd eventually forgotten her entirely.
The voices dicipated, the distinct sound of a door closing floating over the fence. She felt ten again; listening for friendly sounds to wrap her arms around. Sometimes she'd pretend to be someone else, she'd pretend to belong to a family that loved her. A family that protected her.
As she slipped back inside, she was sure to lock the door behind her. She'd had enough foresight to change each and every lock on the house. When it came to taking up residence in the house of horrors, she was taking no chances. She didn't know what kind of life her mother had lead there or what kind of chaos was lurking around the corner...What debris had keys and what was willing to break down the door.
She settled herself in the living room, setting her coffee down onto the table and pulling her sketchbook from her bag. As she opened it up, she scanned through the designs that had been tossed her way by prospective clients. Most of her timeslots had been reserved already and she'd been slaving over the work for the past several days. It was difficult juggling repairs and renovations with the ongoing process of tattoo preparations. But she figured she had an undetermined, flexible amount of time to get the house in order and only a few full days to get her career in check. So, for one full day, that was all she would do.
She flipped through the descriptions of incomplete projects, settling on one that stood out from the rest. The proposed design was specific, something she wasn't entirely used to. Most of her clients came in with frustratingly vague ideas, leaving it in her hands to craft up something worth carving into their bodies permanently.
This, though, was detailed beyond belief. She was up to the challenge; fueled by caffeine and a looming deadline. Her hand moved steadily as she twirled her pencil around, summoning existence from nothing. She started with a flower, keeping her style close to classic tattooing. She loved the classic look; there was just nothing better. Thick lines, bright colour, exagerated shadows. It really got her going.
From the flower, she moved upward into the blade of a sword. The helm decorated and the handle morphing into a pair of hands topped with a brilliant diamond. She worked leaves in as a background, using bright greens to add dimension. It was a strange piece, one that she was sure held a deep meaning for it's future owner. Not that she'd ever ask what it was; she never had before. Sometimes it was obvious, meanings of things. But most times Peyton simply didn't care enough to get into it. She didn't care to understand other human beings, partly because she knew she couldn't and partly because it felt largely like a waste of her time.
As she sat back and studied her work for a minute, she nodded in approval, letting her own talent nurture her insecurities into bay. She was often unable to appreciate just how far she'd come in her abilities, but given that the design had taken only twenty-odd minutes, she was feeling quite smug with herself.
Putting that confidence to good use, she moved onto a new design and on with her day. She sat at that table until the sun had set once more past the horizon. There was commotion outside, yelling and disruptive laughter, car doors slamming followed by more yelling. Peyton was unaware of it all; hyper focused on her work, on her hands.
When the house crept over with darkness, Peyton moved to switch on the light. She took the opportunity to relieve herself in the bathroom, stuff a sandwich into her face and glance at the clock. Uncaring of the late hour, she moved back into the living room. She was prepared to walk into the convention the next day completely deprived of sleep if it meant she could get the two days worth of work finished preemptively.
Three hours in, she fell asleep atop her sketchbook.

Notes

Something wicked this way comes...
Do we know that tattoo? Hm.
Someone's coming. Is it our mystery Wiley?


xx