~~~~~
The pathway was dark, but that was normal enough since it was night. The sky was clear; the stars were easily visible. There were woods all around the area with the attendant nighttime noises adding to the tranquility of the moment. It was a peaceful setting that encouraged anyone passing through (who wasn’t nature phobic that was) to stop and take a few moments to soak in the peace and what we commonly call quiet (even though quiet by definition is not a truly applicable word for what one generally hears being outside at night).
The path culminated in a small building that did nothing to alleviate the darkness surrounding it. The curtains were closed, and any light that might be on the other side of them was dim enough that they prevented any of it from escaping beyond them. The lack of light did nothing to disturb the mood of the immediate vicinity. It might be empty; those inside might be sleeping. There were any number of reasons for the lack of light. It was not unless you ventured inside of the structure that you would find the tranquility banished from around you.
The room didn’t feel right. It took neither much in the way of time nor observation to ascertain that fact; it was more of an immediate impression that one received upon entering. Determining why one had received that impression took a little bit of both. The room had been designed to feel homey (in the picture from a magazine sense of the word). The colors were warm browns and earthy creams to match the “primitive” style of the decor. The throw rugs and accent touches in muted shades of yellow were all in keeping with the theme -- adding splotches of color without being overwhelming.
The space looked like the main room of a small cabin in which people might return year after year to indulge in family togetherness for their vacation (which was appropriate as that was precisely what the intention of the building was). It, under more normal circumstances, did the job well, and people found it restful enough to make it worth their while to indulge in return trips. The same could not be said for the current incarnation of inhabitants. Anyone making a snap judgment at this point in time would decline a repeat visit. There was nothing inviting or comfortable in the current atmosphere (and the word homey was not going to be crossing anybody’s mind).
One could attempt to pin down elements of the room that were at fault. One could look at the empty fireplace and think to oneself that if someone would go to the trouble of lighting it, then the room would be infinitely warmer (both figuratively and literally). One could look at the furniture and ponder what was wrong with it that four of the five people in the room seemed to be spurning the idea of making use of it. One could even ponder that the lack of lighting (in combination with the nonuse of the fireplace) was giving the room a darker appearance than it was meant to have.
The truth was that any and all of the items within the room could have been changed out or dispensed with altogether without it making a bit of difference in regards to the vibe that would still be felt coming from the place because it wasn’t the room itself (or the furnishings therein) that was creating it. The five people gathered in it were far too disharmonious for anyone walking in to be left feeling comfortable in the room. The space seemed full of people but with gaping open spaces at the same time. There was no clutter or scattered items indicative of lived-in-ness to be seen, and the people themselves had spread out as far as possible to create three distinct clumps within the setting.
One woman sat in a chair in the corner of the kitchen area seeming to play absently with a ring that she turned round and round on her finger as her arms rested loosely around her legs that were drawn up onto the chair in front of her. Her chin rested atop her knees. She seemed detached from the goings on in the rest of the room by more than merely her physical distance from the others.
A young man lay sprawled out across the rug in front of the empty fireplace -- his hands stretched out above his head and eyes closed. The only movement coming from his direction was the rise and fall of his chest visible to anyone who looked closely enough to discern the pattern of his breathing. In his own way, he seemed as mentally detached from the others as the occupant of the kitchen chair. He, however, was physically closer to the others. One of them occasionally offered a glance or small gesture in his direction while the woman remained completely ignored. The final three were huddled together -- two women and one man standing closer to each other than two of the three seemed to care for -- as they whispered back and forth in tones that were recognizable as antagonistic despite their lack of volume. This was from whence most of the palatable tension in the room seemed to arise.
“How much more of my time do you plan on wasting today? I’m sick of listening to you. Get it through your head -- no one really gives a care whether or not you have an opinion on the subject. And I definitely don’t care what that opinion is, so why don’t you get over yourself and learn to keep your mouth shut. You’ll do as you’re told, or you know what will happen.” A tall blond (one of the girls in the huddled group) was practically hissing in the direction of the man standing next to her. She was leaning into his personal space and seemed to be either ignorant of that fact or ambivalent to the notion that there might be something objectionable in what she was doing.
“Has anyone ever told you that your people skills leave a whole lot to be desired? Are you completely incapable of having a conversation without having to start throwing around threats? You might give it a try sometime.” The male in the group responded in a similar volume lowered tone. His voice demonstrated a level of tiredness and resignation instead of the irritation that had come from his fellow blond.
They were both tall, young adults with differing shades of blond hair (his dark, hers light), and their huddled group was rounded out by an equally young brunette of similar height (who remained quieter than the others and was not participating in the personal space invasion). They all erred on the side of whispering in their volume level with a certain level of intensity visible in each of their gazes, but they were, beyond that, obviously not in accord. Their respective discordance radiated its way throughout the room in its entirety.
The blond woman had an agitated intensity about her and resembled most a volcano that was considering bubbling over and spewing lava across the surroundings -- it would not have been out of place to use the word rumbling in a description. There was some sort of a line that she appeared to be observing between demonstrating her displeasure with what she was hearing (and the situation as a whole) and letting what anyone paying attention could see was a long tirade of words venting those feelings come pouring out. She was practically pulsing with all of the things that she wasn’t saying. The words that she did allow herself to speak were clipped and staccato as if she was biting down on them to keep the ones that were begging to follow from leaving her mouth.
“There shouldn’t have to be any threats,” she was answering (despite the fact that there were better than even odds that the question had been more of a rhetorical one than an actual invitation for comment) as her fists clenched at her sides. She was bristling with indignation, and it took no great strength of imagination to visualize the fingers currently leaving indentions in her palms being turned into weapons at the expense of the man whose personal space she continued to invade. It was highly likely that she was visualizing that very thing (which would be why her nails were so very close to puncturing her skin).
“There shouldn’t even be a means of making any threats,” she continued with the tension in her hands gradually lessening the longer that she spoke as if the words were draining off some of her emotions and channeling them outside of her physical display. “That you are so attached, that you place so much value, that you require coercion to do things that you should be honored to be a part of is disgusting. You should have been pleased to be offered the opportunity. You should have been grateful for what you learned, and you would throw it all away and spit on it if given the chance.” She sucked in a breath as her head shook in apparent disbelief. �
��You aren’t worthy to be part of this. You’re too corrupted, too contaminated, and you slow us down more than you help. They should have left you to rot in your precious, narrow little life.” She looked strangely triumphant -- as if she had delivered some sort of scathing rebuke that should leave her conversational partner quivering in dismay and unable to counter her accusations. That didn’t happen. The man in front of her met her gaze head on with an intense look of his own.
His look wasn’t angry, somewhat triumphant, irritated, or any of the things that could be traced in his opponent’s (because opponent was the only viable word that would have come into the head of an outsider who stumbled into the midst of the tableau and tried to figure out a label for the participants). The intensity in his eyes was composed of resolve mixed with regret despite the nearly deadening overlay of exhaustion that was so easily visible. He looked tired. He looked worn down. He looked like someone who had been fighting the same battle for so long that the very repetition was tiring in and of itself. The one thing that he didn’t look was defeated.
“I wish they would have,” he told her meeting her gaze head on with his own. The words could have been delivered in a multitude of ways. They could have been laced with malice; they could have hurled accusation. They did neither. They were delivered calmly and with all the trappings of an unembellished fact -- the way in which a person would have offered the words “it’s raining” or “it’s a quarter ‘til eleven.” The plainness of the words seemed to set the woman off in some bizarre counter to their calmness. The clenching of her fists and tensing of her posture returned with full force as if someone had flipped a switch to reengage them. She took a step closer in her already far too close stance and hissed out her next word.
“Ungrateful . . .,” was as far as she got with the would be tirade before the third member of the trio entered the conversation for the first time in quite a while. The brunette took a deliberate step forward -- not so far as to place herself in between the two of them (there not being enough room for that in any case) but still giving a clear indication that she was willing to do so if it proved to be necessary. It was, at the very least, a physical move that served the purpose of drawing the attention of both momentarily away from each other and onto herself. The break in the challenge of eye contact that had been occurring took the tension level down a few notches on its own; it did little for the overall tense feeling still permeating the room.
“Enough,” she declared in the manner of one who was not making a request. Her expression and body language were far more difficult to read than that of the other two. Her facial expression was carefully neutral. Her posture was neither tense nor confrontational. She gave every appearance of being a disinterested spectator, but the tone of her voice and her deliberate placement of herself as the conflict had gained ground displayed anything but disinterest. The word referee might come to mind. There was an equal hint of recess monitor.
“This is counterproductive,” she informed them doing an admirable job of keeping both of them under her gaze at the same time. The intensity she betrayed there matched neither of the people in front of her. Hers was an intensity of focus as if she was studying everything in front of her and processing all of the variables and indications as she did so. Whether she was pleased or dismayed by the results of her study was anybody’s guess. She gave no clue in her bearing.
“You have made your opinion quite clear, Eris, as has Caleb.” Her voice was a case study in the carefully noncommittal. Was she disapproving? Was she biased toward (or against) one party or the other? Did she have a side and was remaining in the role of mediator because she felt it was a role that needed to be filled? Was she in agreement with one or the other? Did she concur with bits and pieces of each stance? Did she have no commonality with either of them? It was impossible to tell by looking at her. It was impossible to discern via her choice of words or the tone with which she uttered them. The only item of insight into what she was thinking was the allowed visibility of her desire for their argument to end.
“Both are irrelevant to the task at hand,” she continued dismissing both of them with the words. “We have assignments -- all of us. The planning portion of this session lapsed long ago into your continued bickering. If everyone is clear on what they are to do, then we are finished.”
“He started . . .,” the woman who had been identified as Eris attempted to argue (in what could only be referred to as a voice more fitted to a playground discussion than a conversation between multiple adults) before the brunette verbally swatted her down. She had declared the matter to be finished, and it seemed that she was going to allow no contrary course of action to occur. Her focus shifted from a carefully equal viewing of the both of them to direct attention on the other woman only. Her shoulders turned, her feet shifted, and her eyes sought and received reciprocated contact. The man (who she seemed to have identified as Caleb) was temporarily boxed out of their small group by the combination. He didn’t appear to mind as he took the opportunity of Eris’s distraction to rub at the bridge of his nose as though he was attempting to ward off some sort of stress related headache.
“It’s no business of yours how he accomplishes his task so long as it is accomplished,” she stated with the first indication of anything other than that vaguely aloof aplomb or straight out command audible in her voice. What, precisely, that flicker might have been -- impatience, irritation, etc. couldn’t quite be pegged down. Someone who knew her well might have more luck, but she didn’t give off a vibe of being overly open. Rather, she seemed a studied caricature of one who didn’t let anyone get close enough to unravel any of her secrets. The flicker of emotional content in her voice vanished far too quickly to be of any further help in figuring out where she stood. It vanished completely by the time that she moved on to her next sentence. “I don’t dictate your methods. Don’t presume to dictate his.”
“You can’t defend them forever, Devon,” the blond stated with her look of irritation being overridden by a sneer. Her far easier to read demeanor screamed that she was itching to pick a fight with someone (anyone) and that she was becoming increasingly less picky about where her ire might be next vented. She did, however, seem to still have some sort of reticence about directing too much of it in the now identified as Devon’s direction. That disinclination toward actively engaging in a spat with her did not seem to entail any prohibition on attempting to pick at her -- the look she was leveling in the other woman’s direction was nothing short of contemptuous.
“Their danger as liabilities will be acknowledged for the way it outweighs their potential at some point,” Eris made a scoffing noise and allowed her sneering look to pass over both Caleb and the man still in front of the fireplace (who neither moved nor gave any change in his breathing pattern to indicate that he was paying attention and had recognized the jab even though Eris’s volume had been steadily climbing in what appeared to be an attempt to ensure that neither of the men would be able to avoid hearing what she was saying about them). “Better sooner over later in my opinion.”
Devon (as one might have presumed from observations of her behavioral choices thus far) did not rise in response to the other woman’s attempt to bait her. She did not even give any indication that she recognized that she was being baited -- not that anyone would make the mistake of believing that she was oblivious. She was merely not deigning to give Eris any room to continue with her pushing. Her calmly voiced response was laced with that tone of command again, and Eris visibly chafed under it. She might not be pushing as hard to goad Devon into an argument as she had been with Caleb -- there was a certain level of respect in her tone when she spoke to Devon (even underneath the sneering) that was completely absent in the words she directed at the others -- but she was equally obvious in her dislike of the other woman’s interference with her earlier altercation and her unwillingness to take anything from Devon that might be construed as an order.<
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“As previously established, your opinion is of no more consequence than those of the rest of us,” Devon stated with neither malice nor chiding evident. Her tone remained steady and devoid of emotional tells. She inclined her head briefly in the direction of the man who still hadn’t moved from his prone position. “David will do what he needs to do as will Caleb. That is all that matters at present.”
“You indulge them to the detriment of your own standing,” Eris retorted with a shake of her head -- as one would in confusion over the behavior of a child when one cannot fathom what it was that they were thinking that prompted them to indulge in some nonsensical activity. Her physically visible tension level that had waned and waxed multiple times during the previous minutes had moved from the clenching of her fists to a settled state of tension across her shoulders that pushed them back and made her appear even taller than she actually was.
“And you antagonize them to the detriment of yours,” was Devon’s only verbal reply (it was delivered in the same neutral tone that had marked all of her forays into conversation). The two held their gazes locked for a few moments and something passed between them. They were not in accord when the staring standoff broke -- that was visible via the eye roll that Eris used to mark the moment. The attempts at altercation between the two of them, however, appeared to be called to a halt. In any case, Devon did not linger long enough for Eris to change her mind and attempt to reengage. She turned her back on her and moved to a small stack of papers that were piled on a little table and began to flip through them.
Eris looked after her for a further few moments (the tail end of her eye roll still held on her face) as if waiting to be sure that Devon wasn’t going to turn back around and let herself be drawn into the conversation (altercation, pack dominance match, whatever one might be inclined to call it). When it appeared that she had accepted that whatever it was had been declared over, she was apparently unwilling to make the effort to pursue it without assistance. She seemed equally disinclined to give up altogether. She appeared to be spoiling for a fight. Devon was not going to oblige her, but it seemed that she was making such a show of busying herself with other things that she might not intervene if Eris made a good choice for her next target.
Her eyes flicked briefly to the man Devon had referred to as David (still not moving from his spot or giving any indication that he was aware of her speculative perusal). Her eyes flicked back to Devon, and she indulged again in an eye roll as if she knew that he would be off limits as far as the other woman was concerned. She shifted her speculative look instead to Caleb who had sunk into a chair during the time that her focus had been on Devon and continued to appear to be warding off a headache with his fingers rubbing small circles at his temples. Her eyes shifted toward Devon again before a small smile (not one that anyone could mistake for one that was pleasant) fluttered across her features as her eyes came to rest on the woman across the room that had been the object of no one’s attention during the entirety of the evening.
Her eyes flicked back to Devon. That flicker of a smile that wasn’t came back full force. She appeared to have found her target and come to a decision (accurate or not remained to be seen) that Devon wouldn’t interfere with it. As her eyes flicked back to Caleb, they became downright malicious. He, however, missed it as he wasn’t looking at her. That was not, apparently, what she wanted. She was about to make a move, and she seemed to be looking to engage an audience.
She spent a few moments looking at the woman who was about to become the next on her list of people with whom to pick a fight. She didn’t seem to be aware that she was being watched. Her eyes were cursorily turned in Eris’s direction, but it was clear that they were not actually focused on her. She seemed not to be focusing on anything. Rather, she gave every appearance that her thoughts were far, far away from the room in which she was sitting and that she was paying little mind to anything that the people around her were doing.
“Your pet is staring again, Caleb.” Eris announced looking at him with a pleased expression on her face as she spoke the words in an accusing tone. “Teach her some manners, or I’ll do it myself.” She added with a clear challenge audible as she did so.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Caleb jumped to his feet as the words were spoken. The tired look from earlier was replaced with a wary sort of intensity that felt much like a guard dog that was trying to determine the best method of blocking a threat to its charge. He was the one that was moving toward her this time, but she only smiled wider as if she was getting exactly what she had wanted.
“Or what?” She scoffed as she took a step forward to intercept his progress toward her. “You’re going to correct me?” She waited for a moment as if giving him a chance to respond, but he didn’t take it. She looked him up and down and made a dismissive snorting noise. “Don’t make me laugh. You haven’t the backbone.” Her expression turned from pleased and malicious to angry again, but she still managed to look as though she was enjoying the situation. “You whine and complain and mope about circumstances, but you never actually do anything. The best you could muster would be to annoy me to death, and you’re already doing that anyway.”
She turned her head so she was once again looking at the petite brunette curled up on her chair. “She’s still staring,” she commented shaking her head and looking strangely disappointed. “Three generations of effort eradicated as if it never had been just because her mother let her hormones override her common sense.”
Her focus shifted abruptly back to Caleb; her words could be described as nothing short of accusing. “It’s nearly as sickening as watching you floundering around trying to pretend that you have some sort of moral high ground. There is no moral high ground. The sooner you get that through your head, the better the chance that there will be something about you that is salvageable. Maybe if you cut the apron strings and jettisoned the dead weight, you might prove capable of learning.” She paused as though the thought had just occurred to her even though it had been clearly written in her looks and posture that this was where she was going with this line of thought from the beginning. “That’s an idea. That’s an excellent idea.”
“You stay . . .,” Caleb began as he stepped deliberately between the two women (one of which gave no indication that she realized that anything was going on). Whatever it was that she was thinking about was obviously taking up all of her focus (even David sat up from his place in front of the fireplace and turned to take in this new commotion).
“Away from her?” Eris asked him. “You always say that. I could point out that I wasn’t the one who insisted on bringing her here in the first place. Don’t look at Devon for help. She won’t intervene -- not with this. Do you always expect someone else to carry you through your confrontations? The fact that you believe her incapable of fighting her own battles speaks volumes of what you really think of her. You can try to lie to yourself all you like, Caleb. At the end of the day, the truth is that you think she is every bit as weak and incapable as I do. As you’ve known her for much longer, shouldn’t your evaluation be the accurate one? That’s what I thought. So indecisive. So lacking in the ability to follow through or even defend your position. They had you for too long. Being with them did too much damage. I guess the final variable is whether or not you can recover from it if you are completely removed from the memory of their influence. Let’s try it.”
She pushed passed Caleb in a completely unnecessary manner, and he pivoted to face the direction in which she was now headed. Devon paused in her progress through a side doorway and made a similar change in facing direction. David was no longer sprawled out on the carpet but kneeling and blinking in an odd fashion (like someone who isn’t quite certain whether or not they have woken up or are engaged in the lingering vestiges of a dream).
Three pairs of eyes all snapped (in bizarre unison) to follow her progress toward the previously predominantly ignored
kitchen section of the room. It would have been comical in a less tense moment -- the way all three of them went still and followed her with their gazes as if they were watching that proverbial train wreck (that apparently can’t be turned away from) happening in front of them. They remained in states of attention -- one looking vaguely curious as to what was about to unfold (almost like a member of an audience about to take in a play), one looking confused as if he had awoken suddenly to discover himself in an unexpected place where he wasn’t clear as to what was happening, and one looking very nearly panic stricken in that so horrified that movement is momentarily beyond your grasp kind of way.
None of them moved any closer. None of them opened their mouths to say anything. There was one further element obviously displayed by all three of them -- whatever it was that was about to happen, not one of them expected it to go well.
Eris, on the other hand, clearly expected that it would. She looked pleased and expectant -- until she got closer to her target. The woman in the chair didn’t move from her position. In fact, her eyes were blinking in a manner that was strangely similar to David’s mannerisms. That, however, only lasted for the first few steps of Eris’s progress toward her.
“Do you have a problem with me?” She belted out, and it seemed to snap something into place in the woman in the chair. Something behind her eyes clicked; you could practically see wheels turning in the hazel depths -- threat, approaching, counter. Her target’s gaze became steadier as Eris drew closer.
She didn’t stand up -- she remained as she was with her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms wrapped loosely around her legs. She looked up (and as she appeared as though she would have been significantly shorter than her would be antagonist even if they were both standing the seated/standing arrangement made it a long way up to look). It should have made her look vulnerable; it should have made her look like prey huddling under the gaze of a predator. It was abundantly clear from Eris’s bearing that she thought that she was a predator in the scenario. There was something, however, in the other woman’s bearing (even from what should intuitively have been perceived as the vulnerable position) that made those looking on get the feeling that Eris might not be quite as pinnacle of the food chain at that moment as she thought that she was.
Best Left Unfinished Page 8
