Chapter eight... oh so late...

Chapter 8
“Alright, you know why you’re here,” Troy looks at the group in front of him, “So I’ll leave it up to you where you want to start. We have two brick buildings to scrape paint off of and four fences to repaint. Since you seem to enjoy painting so much, that should be easy,” he raises his eyebrows at them.
“Whatever,” Sophie kicks a rock into the road, “let’s just do this.”
Garret raises his hand, “can we start with the buildings?”
“Of course,” Troy says, “and if ever you are in need of a little extra help, then simply tell me who your other accomplice was and I’ll go and fetch him.”
“There was no one else,” Sophie scoffs.
“But what about --” Hans begins, but is cut off by a sound slap across the face from Sophie.
“What are you talking about, Hans?” She asks innocently.
“Um…” he rubs his face, “ow. Nothing.” he kicks some dirt with his toe.
“Good,” she says.
“Okay, in that case, you can go ahead and get to work.”
“Fine. Let’s just do this and get it over with,” she shoots a glare at me.
“Why did I have to come with you?” I whimper to Troy.
“It’s part of your training.”
I smirk, “Awesome,” I say in a voice which implies that it actually is not-awesome.
“One of the things you’ll learn very quickly, Mela, is that people are… well, they’re people. You are in a position of great influence, which means that you could easily hated. Of course popularity is not everything, but being well-liked is something to consider.”
“Where are you going with this, exactly?”
“We are going to help them.”
“Why?” I pause, “I don’t mean to sound awful or anything, but since they were the ones who committed the crime, should not they also do the cleanup?”
“Perhaps. But this town is my responsibility, and now yours, too,” he places a paintbrush in my hand.
I run my fingertips over the soft, new bristles. I wonder where it has been, what it has seen. I’m sure it’s seen more than I have, and been more than I have, and known more than I have. I wonder if paintbrushes have names, and if they did, what would his name be? Is he a he? Of course he is a he… I think.
His hair stands on end as though he is perpetually excited - anticipating something, perhaps frightened. But nevertheless, he stands tall and proud, not failing, not giving in.
“Mela?” Sophie touches my arm gently, “are you alright?”
I nod softly, “Yes, I am fine,” but my voice sounds decidedly not-fine even to myself, and I study the paintbrush ever more intently, the intricacies of the wooden handle, the bends of the hair.
“Are you sure?”
I don’t reply. I can’t. I just stare at the object of my affection, like the entire world is gone, like in this singular moment something has happened that cannot be broken.
“Mela?”
I jerk my eyes away with a start, “What? I am sorry, what are we doing?”
Her forehead creases in confusion, “we’re just… painting and scraping and stuff.” she nods towards the paintbrush, “Are you actually going to use that, or just stare at it?”
“No… I mean, yes, I’ll use it. I’m using it.”
She nodded, “Okay, are you sure you are fine?”
The thought flits through my head that it’s been about a day since the last time I fell in love, and perhaps even a week since it was that bad… but was it ever that bad before?
Perhaps I am getting better. Perhaps I am getting worse.
“Mela? Really, you are frightening me. Maybe you should just go home and lie down awhile. I promise I will…”
I hear her voice vaguely, but I cannot understand the words, cannot speak, cannot see, cannot breathe.
“…you won’t have to worry, I swear…”
I curl my fingers into a fist, letting my fingernails dig into my skin, and close my eyes.
Her words become even more distant as I concentrate to breathe, even as that slips away from my control.
I feel myself sink to my knees.
…The yellow house, home, wandering, down the stairs, through the halls, “Mom? Are you in here mom? Mom?” she is so pale. So, so pale, “mom,” I want to scream, but can barely whisper, “mom? Wake up…”
And then it‘s not her in the bed, but a man that I have never seen, and mother being the one speaking, “…Wake up, wake up, we have to get out of here… hurry… we don’t have much time…”
“…time to leave.” The train pulls out of the station, and there she is, waving goodbye, with tears falling down her face. I look up at the man sitting next to me… dark hair, eyes blue, just the same colour of blue…
“…Mela… …Mela…”
“Mela! Mela?”
I open my eyes to see Sophie crouching beside me, “Mela, what is going on?”
I shake my head, trying to think, breathing, trying to make sense of something, “I do not know,” I look at her, “Where is Troy?”
“Over there,” she points to where he is opening a can of paint, flanked by the two miscreants, “Mela, what just happened to you?”
“I’m not sure,” I push myself to my feet, “but I am going to find out.”
I walk behind him, “Troy, we need to talk.”
He turns around to face me, “can it wait until we have finished here?”
“No. Now.”
He frowns and turns to McKinley, “Do you think you could handle this, McKinley?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, softly but surely.
“Good. Then I will leave you.”
We walk to the house in silence, neither of us speaks a word until we are sitting across the table from each other, staring.
“What did my father look like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why would I not asdk? He is my fatrher, after all, eventually I would want to know what he looks like. Why will you not tell me?”
“Calm down, I have no objection to speaking of your father. In fact, I’ll do one better, I will show you him,” he stands up and walks from the room, to return moments later with a photograph in his hand, “I had almost forgotten his appearance myself,” he sighs, “but now I remember. I remember exactly. You are much like him in appearance. Your eyes, your smile, even your voice. You are tall and strong, like he was.”
“He was? Is he dead?”
“I imagine so, although I do not know for certain.” he passes me the photograph.
The man I had seen earlier stares back at me, albeit in black and white, “He was in the military?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There are many things you do not know about him.”
“Tell me.”
“He was very young.”
“That’s not exactly what I expected you to tell me.”
“He was very bright, he was better than the rest of the soldiers, smarter, faster, more strategic.” he sighs, “It was my fault your mother and he ever met. I took a liking to him, he became like a son to me -”
“Then why were you angry about mom and him falling in love?”
“Let me tell the story.”
I nod.
“It was silly. They were so young. He began to change, it was slow, but it happened. Missing his guard shift, tired all the time, pulling away from his friends. He began to speak of conspiracies. I tried to separate them, but they would have none of it. I think Anastasia did it partially to spite me, though I cannot say that I blame her. It was so long ago…” I don’t think he will finish, but he continues, “I cannot remember it all. I don’t want to. It happened so fast, and she was gone,” he closes his eyes, “I will never forget what that did to your grandmother. She died a few years after you were born, right after they took you out of society. I think she just could not handle it… she just gave up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. I am tired. I have things that must be done,” he stands up, then glances down at me, “you may keep the photograph.”
“Thank you,” I barely whisper, my head spinning.