Yellow (AU,M/L,Adult) chpt 1 7/27/15

This is the place where fics that have not been updated in the past three months will be moved until the author asks a mod to move them back to an active board.

Moderators: Anniepoo98, ISLANDGIRL5, truelovepooh, Forum Moderators

User avatar
Karen O
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 17
Joined: Sun Jun 06, 2010 11:50 pm

Yellow (AU,M/L,Adult) chpt 1 7/27/15

Post by Karen O » Mon Jul 27, 2015 1:01 am

Title: Yellow

Author: Karen O

Category: AU M/L

Rating: Adult

Disclaimer: I own nothing about Roswell. Just borrowed the names because I love the Roswell characters.

Summary: Liz and Max meet at seventeen. Just when she thinks her life is starting to go in the right direction, her world slowly starts to fall apart after discovering a dark family secret about the man she loves.

Chapter One

I really fucking hate yellow.

It's such an arrogant hue. In peoples minds, it always gets associated with warmth. Happiness. Gentleness. But whenever I look at that stupid color, that obnoxiously vivid color, it fills my body with completely opposite emotions.

Anger. Sadness. Pain.

My first memories of my hatred for yellow started when I was just a barely walking and talking toddler. Before I could even wipe my own ass. I remember always being with my mom, who constantly kept the house tidy, dishes cleaned, and laundry put up in the correct place. It was like she kept busy to not think about her own being. Like every scrub made to a dirty surface, was her scrubbing away the filth from her own life. Everything in the house would just freeze, even the ticking coming from the clocks, when the atmosphere would start to go from blue to a mixture of reds and oranges. All we could hear was my father pulling up the driveway after a long day at his crummy car wash job. That's when I would glance out the window and see it.

His polished yellow car.

Ever since I knew to affiliate that color with my father and his abusive ways, I started to notice it would pop up at me whenever I was in a dreadful situation. For instance, one night when I was four my mom ran into my room and before I could finish rubbing the sleep from my heavy eyes, she had me in her frail arms and was placing me in my closet.

"Whatever you hear be quiet." She told me sternly but so quiet I almost thought she didn't say anything at all. "Be quiet. And don’t come out." She ordered once more before running her shaking hand down my bone straight hair, something she did to me for comfort. I only nodded my head not fully understanding what was happening as she pressed a hard kiss on my forehead. Maybe this was a new game she wanted to play? Slowly, she backed out and closed the door without another sound. I remember sitting in that pitch-black little space while I heard my father rape her in the hallway just ten feet away from where I was hiding. I heard her cry like I have never heard before as he called her names I didn’t understand at the time and slammed her against the walls surrounding them . I could hear picture frames falling and crashing into a million pieces on the floor. Our family photo's that were nothing but lies and secrets captured for the viewing pleasure of strangers. When you see pictures of smiling happy people, you assume that's how they always are. My mother became the queen of keeping up with appearances. You know that saying "If walls could talk…"? Well if that was true ours would have never shut the hell up.

The only thing I could make out in that closet space was a sweater I received the previous year on my birthday (Mom would also sneak little parties with the other neighborhood kids for special occasions while dad was at work. He was never a social person). It just hung above me, it's bright gold shade shining through the darkness, like it was telling me it'll be okay. Like it was trying to give me hope. I sat there for hours just staring up at the article of clothing floating above my head like it was a gift from the Gods. Even at that young age I called bullshit. But I couldn't take my eyes off of it, not even to blink. I stayed that way until the bright sunlight crept in under the door and my mother crawled into my room and pulled me out carefully. Even though her hands and mouth were covered with dried blood and bruises already forming around her neck, she hugged me to her so tight. But that's what she always did after a night like that one, once dad had left or passed out from exhaustion.

I would see it at school too. I obviously didn't have the most stylish wardrobe to catwalk the halls in and some of the other girls would take notice and go out of their way to make sure every other student did too. Tina Black was the ringleader of the fifth graders who would make me feel like nothing. Constantly tripping and pushing me in the halls while making fun of my Goodwill second hand shoes and my pants that were a tad bit too short on me. I tried to stick up for myself once when a group of them cornered me in the bathroom but before I knew it I was on the sticky floor while Tina was above me, her boney knuckles digging into my arms and chest, as she made her punches. Instead of trying to push myself back up, I just laid there looking up at her yellow hair scrunchie bopping up and down with every swing of her arm on top of her head.

Maybe that's why I can't help but notice him. Walking out of his house into the humid summer heat with that ugly primary color top on. Even with the sun completely removed from the sky and being replaced with the night, his brightly colored shirt mocks me. I can't help but roll my eyes as I look down at him from the freshly washed window, while he drags two stuffed trash bags over the cement of the driveway. Typical teenage boy. Having to prove his existence in the world.

"Douche." I whisper out to him. "Pick the damn things up." I say like he can hear me. I can’t help but start to shake my head at him as he slowly walks down to the large metal cans at the end of his perfectly cut lawn. But he just continues to drag and drag, not caring that the noise could wake a comatose patient in the next town over.

"You're a prick." I say louder and get a little rush in me from being a secret asshole to someone for no real reason. My eyes move from the white bags to his top again. More irritation grows in my body making me shriek and throw my hands up over my head like I'm about to freak out on him. "Oh! I decided to wear this-," But before I can start my little tantrum to myself over that damn shirt, I stop mid-sentence because he suddenly looks up at me. It's like he can sense my thoughts and eyes burning little holes into him. After a few seconds, I assume seconds only went by but it could be minutes….hell, even hours, I finally realize my hands are still up in the air. I quickly drop them back to my sides and to hide my embarrassment I give him a small wave which makes him smile widely up at me. And once again I have proved to myself… I am obviously all talk and no action.

Even with only the streetlights shining down on him, I'm fully aware of his perfect pearly whites normally hiding behind his lips and how his smooth dark mop of hair almost cover his eyes from view. His attention stays completely focused on me as he dumps the bags into the receptacles and puts the tops back on. Even when he starts to walk back into his house, he goes backwards so we can remain eye contact. Once he finally makes it to the gigantic front door , he gives me the same hand gesture I previously shared with him before he disappears completely.

"What the hell was that?" I whisper to myself, slowly backing away of view from the street. Making my way to my bed, I start to examine my new personal space filled with boxes, boxes, and guess what? More damn boxes. I lean over and pick up a small carton to rummage through some of my belongings but I can't concentrate on my things and where I should be placing them to make this room feel more like home. All I can think about is dark hair, straight teeth and yellow. Fucking yellow. Before my brain can be completely consumed with my mysterious neighbor, it's interrupted by the loud crash coming from downstairs. I'm instantly on my feet and running for the stairs.

"Mom!" I call out loudly. I practically skip down the stairs two at a time so see what was the cause of the commotion. When my feet hit the glossy oak wood floors, I am once again surrounded by brown boxes and plastic storage containers that are just begging to be busted open and unpacked. We have never lived in such a spacious house before. The home we shared with my father was a disgusting shack. After that it was nothing but dingy motels. Once we started to get more income it was one, sometimes two if we could afford it, bedroom apartments. "Mom?" I make my way down the hall and find my mother in the living room gently placing the excessive amount of pillows onto the couch. "What the hell was that noise?" I ask her while practically doing a belly flop onto the mountain of nicely organized cushions she just created.

"Elizabeth! C'mon!" My mother protests my shenanigans while picking up some of the pillows that flew off as I landed. "And language!"

"Nancy!" I protest back with a smile that would tell anyone I was up to no good. "They are just couch pillows. Nothing but fabric and stuffing."

"Behave yourself." She replies back while softly hitting the top of my head with one of them.

"Always." I tell her while playfully smacking the cushion she was holding away from my face. "Did you drop something?"

She lets out a big sigh that I don’t even think she knew she was holding in. "Yeah," She points to the other end of the room to a pile of knocked over books. "You know how clumsy I can get." She walks over to my feet and uses her arm to lift them up so she can take a seat underneath them. When my legs are pressed against her lap she starts to play with my toes like she used to do when I was little and suddenly images start popping up from my childhood. My thoughts quickly move from the peaceful times I shared with my mom and replaced with more thoughts on my father.

His rough skin. His corrupt grin. His soulless eyes. His yellow car.

Coming out of my daze, I start to watch her move her fingers around my sore feet. She always had the most lovely hands in my opinion. So graceful and smooth. She looks deep into thought and I know she's thinking of him and if moving back was a good idea. Coming back to the very beginning.

I'll never forget the look on my moms face when we received that call years ago in the middle of a random cold harsh night. I stood in the doorway as she held the receiver against her ear. She didn't say anything until the very end of the phone call. All that came out from her lips was a soft, "Thank you." She dropped the phone to the floor, making small pieces of cheap plastic fly around the room, and went to sit on the closest chair in sight without saying a single word. I knew she was aware of my presence in the room but she did not acknowledge me in the slightest. She just sat there with no expression at all.

"Mama?" I asked in a little voice that could only belong to a curious seven year old. Her wide eyes finally looked in my direction and as soon as her vision landed on me, the tears began to fall quickly. When I started to move closer to her, her cries got more harsh and she dropped her face into her palms. "Mama?" I asked again even more hushed than the first time. I placed my tiny hands on her knees as the crying continued.

I stood there, softly tracing little imaginary patterns with my fingers on her silky skin, when she all of the sudden started to laugh. I remember it took me a few moments to realize that her shoulders were moving up and down violently not due to her sobs but due to her laughter. When she pulled her face back from her hands, I could see her smile. Her eyes looked bright and hopeful.

Honestly, it was the most beautiful I had ever seen my mom look up to that point in my life.

Before I could notice all the other signs of joyfulness coming from her, she pulled me into a fierce hug like she used to when the coast was clear of my father after a beating. This hug felt similar but completely different at the same time. The scent of her shampoo filled my nose and I inhaled deeply so that I could store this memory in my brain for all time. The first time I ever saw my mother truly happy.

"He's gone." She whispered into my ear while our bodies start a slow rocking back and forth. "He's gone." She repeated again. I didn't ever bother to ask her who she was talking about or what happened exactly. Even at that young age I just knew. My father was dead.

And just like that: No more rough skin. No more corrupt grins. No more soulless eyes. No yellow car.

He never told us where he would go on nights when he would grab his keys and just leave. It was almost routine how our days went. Father would go to work when he wanted to, come home already tipsy from the 12 pack he kept in his trunk and he would eat the dinner my mother would cook us. Some nights he would be all over her, not caring that I witnessed where his hands went under her dress or up her shirt. Mom would act like it didn't bother her so he wouldn't get upset at her refusing him. Most nights, he usually passed out on the couch from the alcohol while on others she would say the wrong thing or not laugh loud enough at his pathetic attempt at a joke and that would make him grab her by a fist-full of hair and drag her out of the living room and down the hall into their bedroom with a slam of a door. I would just sit alone at the table pushing my food around with my fork as I would hear him beat her until she couldn't cry out for help or for him to stop.

While adjusting his belt around his waist he would walk back out to the kitchen, opening the fridge to retrieve a cold one, while the small light coming from ice box would show the blood already drying onto his hands. I would just sit there at the table watching his movements as he continued to chug the alcohol. He would then grab his keys while making his way to the door leading to the driveway. Our eyes would connect, during his small walk, and in the almost darkness a dim light coming from the street aloud me to see his grin on his face as he left.

Then he would be gone without a single word.

Once I knew the yellow car was completely pulled out of the driveway, I would go find my mother to make sure she was still conscious.

Seven hours after he left the house, his body was found in a dumpster behind one of the dive restaurants in town. His yellow car was parked a few feet away from his motionless corpse surrounded by endless amount of people's trash.

He was stabbed four times in the back, once on his side right between some ribs, and his throat slit from ear to ear. When I found out how he was brutally murdered, I wanted to ask if he was in a lot of pain when he died. Did he die instantly or suffer greatly while being tossed like a piece of garbage? I wanted the answers to be yes.

Yes! Please tell me he was in such agony that he cried, just how my mother did when he was done with her, while his life left his pathetic body. Please tell me he felt terrified, just like I did growing up in his house, as he felt his skin being torn open and the sharp blade slide into his body over and over again.

Did we even register as a thought while he slipped away? I highly doubt it.

After weeks and days of searching and interviews, no evidence was found to accuse anyone. Truthfully, I'm sure if anyone was actually caught and convicted we would have ended up sending them a thank you card with a detailed message of how much we appreciated what they did. Mom never mentioned how he treated us to the cops or anyone. I assumed it was because she wanted us to forget. I guess dad was smart for never bruising up her face much. Most of his beatings were from the shoulders down. What could have the cops done anyways? The answer to our problem had already been solved. So we faked the mourning wife and child to make sure people left us alone. It worked.

When he was buried six feet into the ground and all the services were done and all papers were signed, we never spoke of him again to each other. We didn't even speak his name. After a few months I started to forget what he even looked like. He just started to become this blurred figure in my memories and nightmares and that's how he shows up in my mind till this day. Mom made sure all of his belongings were burned or thrown away, and we put that tiny house for sale. After it sold, we were gone.

We were free and we never looked back…until three months ago when she was offered a job opportunity she just could not give up. Now we are back to this town. This little spec of a dot on the maps and I am nervous. I told her that this is good, that this is the kind of job she went back to school for to get. It would have been ridiculous of her to refuse. She finally agreed and here we are. The city where I was born, my father killed, and my mothers dreams were dreamt, ruined, and resurrected.

"Elizabeth?" My mothers voice fills my ears and I am back into our reality. "Liz?" She asks again while squeezing my calf to get my attention. "You okay?"

"Huh?" I ask blinking a few times to clear my head completely of my past thoughts and see her looking at me with concerned eyes. "Yeah, of course." I reassure her with a smile. "I'm just hungry." I lie. I have no appetite.

"Well follow me." She smiles and reaches over to run her hand over my cheek. We both get up from our comfortable positions and she starts to lead me into the kitchen.

"Wow, it looks great in here!" I state as I look around at all the things she had already hung up and placed out since we got here earlier this afternoon. "I can't believe you've already done all this alone. I was just upstairs, you could have called me down to help." I say as she turns on the stove which already has a clean pot sitting on top.

"I know you have a lot of exploring to do." She says with a grin while heading over to the fridge for some ingredients. "It's a new house and new yard…" She trails off while walking over to the pantry to grab some vegetable oil. "I want to make sure you get settled how you want to. At your own pace. Plus with starting a new school…".

"Mom." I half moan, half laugh. "I'm seventeen years old…almost eighteen!" I correct myself. "You're acting like I'm five and I've never seen a room or blade of grass before. And it's not like I've never started at a new school before." I finish and jump up on one of the kitchen counters so my feet could swing back and forth. Her back is towards me as she starts to pour the veggies and the already cut up chicken from the fridge into the hot pan. We both remain quiet while the simmering noises fill the room.

With her back still facing me, she starts to say, "I'm scared, Liz. I'm scared to back in this town. What if we made a mistake coming back? I'm scared for you to be here. What if people start to talk and," She grows quite for a few moments. "It'll bring up a lot of memories that you-," I cut her off quickly. She was starting to remind me of how she used to act. Years and years ago always stressing and worrying. I believe she changed as soon as we drove by the "Now Leaving" sign of the town.

"Being here isn't going to make me realize new things, Mom." She still won't turn around to face me. "I'm still being honest when I say that I didn’t mind moving back here. I...I think it'll be good for us. To move on." I finish quietly.

"I'm just starting to second guess myself." She admits nervously. I slide off the counter and walk over to her right side. We have no other family…for the longest time it was just us against the world. She is my protector and I am her rock. "I wish we kept in touch with people." She admits. "So you would have friends here."

"We'll be fine. I promise." I place my hand on her slim elbow so softly. "I'll be fine." I reassure her.

Slowly, she starts to nod in agreement and she finally turns so I can see her face. Her eyes are glossy and a quivering smile plastered on. They are happy tears though. Just like the ones I saw come from her the night he was murdered. "You're amazing." She tells me and I smile genuinely up at her. She wipes the water streaks away and I give her a kiss on the cheek. We both worked so hard to get our lives back to normal but we did it. We deserve to be happy.

"Where did you put the plates?" I ask to change the subject and to get rid of the dark cloud that suddenly formed over our heads. When she points to the correct cabinet I race over to grab them and carefully set them on the table. I watch as she continues to stir and the smell of the food fills the room up, making my mouth water.

After eating, we both clear the table and clean up with pleasant conversation. I start to get the sense my mom is finally relaxing and she now seems to be excited for what the future holds for us. I silently pray it's a good one but I'm doomed for the rest of my life to always just expect the worst.

I can't help but sneak glances out the window once I'm back in the privacy of my room, trying to get situated for bed. I notice the lit up window across the street and can’t help but wonder who is inside? Mr. Perfect teeth? I take the time to survey his yard and notice a red storage barn almost hidden from view by the two car garage. For some odd reason, I get this feeling that the barn is familiar. But I know that's impossible. I've never been on this street or this house before a day in my life until today.

When I can finally take my eyes away from the barn they go back to the one and only lit up room, but to my surprise I find it now dark. Then I start to feel it. The little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand straight up…like someone is watching my every move. Slowly, I back up until the back of my legs run into my mattress. I sit down and continue to keep my eyes on the now shadowy room for any signs of movement.

Deep down, I know someone is over there doing the exact same thing to me.