Chapter 1
I don't know what exactly happened that landed me in Forks, Washington. But here I was, standing in front of my new home.
A dark green wood house with white windows and a wooden patio that had been left its original brown. The house could hardly be considered "two stories" with only one small room up top on the second story, my room. The front door was red with small stepping stones leading to it. It was surrounded by woods, hardly visible from the road, a murder house! Good thing it was MY murder house! It was a fucking ugly house.
"Sure is pretty!" My mom rolled her eyes as she joked.
"We should paint polka dots on the door." My dad scoffed, his voice monotone as usual. I knew he was joking though. I hope.
These motherfuckers acting like they didn't buy it. Okay.
It was hard to recognize this building as a home. I mean, before I had only lived in musty, run down apartments in the shitty side of Portland... this was something different. I didn't have to worry about neighbors stomping on the ceiling at a shitty party or a drunk couple screaming next door. I had my own room, my own space, my own bathroom. I could play music at a loud volume without a message from the landlord. I could scream if I needed to without worrying about triggering a PTSD victim down the hall. I had freedom, even if the space wasn't huge, it was bigger and free-er (is that a word?).
I wasn't exactly made for the forest life. I was too weak to lift much and too gay to get my nails dirty. But, something felt like I weirdly belonged here.
I was always told I looked like I had dirt on my face when I was a kid. I never did. Only freckles that adorned my face and body, I had gotten them from my mother and for a while I hated them, saw them as a burden as mean elementary kids bullied me for having a "dirty face" through juice box stained lips. Perhaps that was why I felt I belonged among the dirt and trees? Because I was always told I did? Who knows... the forest seems like it knows.
I could spot a few cabins nearby as I surveyed my surroundings, much prettier than whatever the hell was going on with ours. One in particular caught my eye, large and insanely intricate.
Made of beautiful wood and standing three stories tall, with wide, gleaming windows, some glass, some open walkways. Its dull teal roof matched the lake beside it, and a broad balcony on the second floor connected several rooms together. The lowest floor was cobblestone, bordered by a cement path and cobble steps. Flowers and plants surrounded the entire place. The house almost felt magical... what fucking assholes lived there?
The cabin was surrounded loosely by other cabins, resembling the larger one but most were single floored. Only one other had multiple floors, a two story home that was the closest in proximity to the larger cabin.
This just feels like cult shit. Im staying away from those freaks.
I grabbed my stuff from the van, my dad had refused to buy a moving truck so all our stuff was cramped into this tiny vehicle. Apparently, my dad had arrived a few weeks prior to furnish part of the house, because that's easier than just buying a fucking moving truck. But okay. I headed upstairs, back and forth, back and forth with heavy boxes. I visibly strained as I handled each box, but no worries, I got this. Im a real big boy. Yeah. Big boy Caiden. Yeahhh.
"Hey! Shorty! Need some help?" I glance over and almost drop the box of books on my feet. Oh sweet mother of pearls.
A man, who had to be... what? 6'3 at least? Was waving at me, ME. He wasn't just tall... no, that would've been too easy on my poor, gay heart! Curly honey blonde hair that fell messily on his face, dimples with a smile that radiated pure joy and whimsy, broad shoulders... and his outfit was baggy, a black hoodie with some band name on it, a dusty blue jean jacket with dirt on it, and beige jeans with an even more absurd amount of dirt on them. But I could just IMAGINE what he was hiding under there. Probably shouldn't be though... he looks much older than me. Screw my shitty teenage boy life. Oh well, staring never hurt.
"Shorty?" The man was now much closer, his face etched with concern as I zone out.
Oh right!
"Oh uh... yeah, could you help with the lighter boxes?" I chuckled nervously.
I needed help with the heavy ones, actually. But that's just rude to ask a stranger to carry your heavy ass books into your fugly murder house. Be generous and ask them to carry your lighter books into your fugly murder house. Despite my extremely kind gesture, he grabbed the heavy box from my arms.
"Lead the way." He grinned, that beautiful grin.
I hate older hot dudes.
I nod and lead him upstairs to my room, glancing back to make sure he's okay. He carried that box effortlessly, not even watching his feet as he stepped up the stairs. This dude was sure confident in his abilities, I guess.
I gestured for him to set it down in the middle of the room before setting down a smaller box I had been carrying. I stretched my arms and I could feel eyes on me and hear the faint sound of... sniffing? I turned my head over and as predicted, this dude was staring directly at me. An intense, uncomfortable stare that made me increasingly aware of how greasy my hair was after the move.
"...Hello?" I side eyed him nervously.
"...S-sorry. I... I need to go." He backed out and bolted down the stairs. Guess he didn't like the murder house.
I had never seen an old dude run that fast, I worried he may break a hip doing allat. Okay, actually, he's not hip breaking old yet. I'm just being mean. He's like... 30 probably? Anyway, it was weird but I shrugged it off. Maybe he's from that freak teal roof cult and isn't allowed to converse with mortals without teal roofing. Damn, now I gotta move the rest of the boxes by myself.
After moving my stuff, putting my underwear away, hanging my jackets, and making my bed... it was time for dinner.
I hurried downstairs to find my mom, she had bought Subway, it wasn't my favorite but there was like... nothing in Forks. So, it was enough. I found my BLT and took a bite, testing the texture. I shook my head when I felt the bite in my mouth. I dont hate tomatoes, I love them even. I just dont like when there's too many in my sandwich, it ruins the texture, I always ask my mom for less tomatoes but I think she forgets. Or doesn't pay attention when they're making it. Whatever reason, there was too many tomatoes, so instead of whining about it, I manned up and took a few out.
My dad greedily snatched my tomatoes, he was a tomato fiend, it was almost concerning how fast he snatched them. He was probably staring, waiting... I could imagine him panting hungrily as I took a tomato out. I chuckled out loud at the thought, causing my dad to arch a brow. I shook my head and ran upstairs to finish eating.
I didn't like eating in front of people, so I always ate alone in my room. At first, my parents had an issue with it, but after some conversations we came to an agreement. Breakfast with the family, other meals in my room, as long as I clean up after myself. Eating in front of people made my skin crawl, I didn't know why. I just hated it. But, my mom grew up in a family where meals were important moments of family time, so she was passionate about meal times together. At first, we argued about it, but... dad helped us reach a compromise.
A lot of people say their moms are the sweet ones and their dads are hot headed, but truthfully? I've never heard my dad raise his voice. My mom on the other hand... she's not mean, she's just passionate and loud. I think she's afraid if she doesn't yell, no one will listen. I get that. Me too.
My eyelids drooped as I laid in my bed. Hm... I found myself clinging to the thought of silver eyes. Much like the eyes the man from earlier had... I didn't know silver eyes were a thing. I wonder why he ran, his eyes were like... staring into my soul... did that hoe sniff me?!
