The officer with the gelled blonde hair cringed at the sight of him, trying to hide the discomfort he must have felt seeing someone with permanent facial palsy. The look was unmistakable. Miles' couldn't help but sigh as he watched the tall handsome officer offer a curt nod at him, one that almost resembled a grimace. He had accepted it, yes, but that didn't make it any less tiring.
Miles ducked underneath the tape and came face to face with the path that led to the house. To the house that his father lived in, and he took, with all of his family, once. And also apparently died in. Miles felt the breath being knocked out of him. For once, in almost two weeks especially since his father's birthday, his sight didn't blur and the headache that had become a regular guest didn't grace its presence today. That would have been a relief had it been he wouldn't have to walk into the very building he had left when he was 16, the very place that left a salty tang to his already lacking tongue and an extra jump in each beat of his heart.
Miles inhaled before walking. He ascended the oak wood steps, the railings by each side painted a stark white with tiny marks slicing across its somewhat flaky skin. Just like the skin of his back and thighs. Miles fought the shudder as his gaze held that of the piano that stood off to a corner of the balcony that overlooked the now crowded front porch and street. The grand piano sat proudly, catching rays of light that filtered through breaks in the overhead roofing tiles, now brown like the glossy lid of the piano. Miles could almost imagine his father playing it, his deft fingers running along the black and white keys in a beautiful tune, his brown eyes shining as he entertained his guests. Him doing all of that while Miles would be forced to listen to the tune from where he was in his bedroom upstairs that had been soundproofed. The thought of it caused a lurch in Miles' belly, making the oppressive feeling in his chest spiderweb down to his arms, causing them to clench of their own accord.
Breathe, you're better than this. You have overcome this, you're a man now, a detective for crying out loud so start acting like one.
One more time he inhaled, sharply bringing in the faint aroma of burnt oranges, a fragrance that his father had made sure his house smelt of. Heavenly to anyone else but it only caused the bile in the back of his throat to pick up speed, the possibility of retching all of his stomach's contents not too much of a dream. Miles grabbed the door knob, the smooth golden piece now a bit rusty underneath his equally coarse hands. He could only wonder how tonight would turn out, he sighed before he pushed the door open.
Miles moved in swiftly, his hand drumming against the notebook in his pocket of his black jeans. His eyes skimmed through his environment, everything still looked the same. Like in the living room, the orange couches crowded with soft plush red pillows opposite a wide TV with a slat of wood wedged between two massive speakers which displayed some of the awards his father had received. The sick feelings in his stomach only intensified, now buttering his tongue in the acrid taste of vomit only waiting to be released.
Sunlight filtered through the large windows, red drapes pulled to the side, the bright hue a contrast to the white wallpaper that had acquired rips showing the sullied and darker wall beneath. Like his family, his father had covered them both under the guise of peace, a wonderful father they said, caring for the boy despite the condition he had. If only they knew how sullied he really was.
Miles only wished he could doodle, leaving this place and returning to the safety of his drawing but that could only be done later. Some police officers stalked around with CSIs amongst them, checking the house for potential evidence of the homicide. The homicide. The murder of his father. Miles began to walk up the steps, the oppressing cloud that filled every nook and cranny of this house getting more concentrated. The goosebumps crawled up his hands, casting tremors over his body. His ears rung and his throat became dry. Like the time he awoke with his shirt soaked with sweat and his breaths as heavy as the heart that sunk in his chest, he was tired.
Still, he went up and reached the top of the staircase, the only mantra he could think of being, He's dead. To be honest, he didn't really know what to think of it. Should he be happy? Sad? Angry? He didn't know, he couldn't know. He sighed again. The smell of burnt flesh made the hairs on his back stand, unease eating away at him. By his father's door, a small group of people stood, mostly officers in a circle with some other people in plain clothes. As he began to walk to them, the group parted and Sarah, a victims assistance personnel, gently pulled a dark woman who had strands of her long black hair scattered across her face, looking at the ground as her high heeled boots clinked against the floor.
Sarah looked at him and she gave him a tired smile, her light brown eyes barely crinkling as they normally would. The eye bags that hung over her eyes just barely reflected the tiredness and exhaustion that dwelled inside. He nodded at her, as he moved to give them way, the woman raised her head. He momentarily forgot how to breathe.
Bella's eyes widened similarly and she stopped. Her mouth parted, mirroring the surprise that must have reflected on his own face.
"Miles?"
Miles didn't know what to do as he stared down his sister. Sarah looked between them, confused, unable to understand how they knew each other. At that moment, the familiar petty strife that he had thought he had gotten over gripped him with a staggering amount of force. The bitterness made his mouth sour.
"Di-dn't expec-t to se-e you her-e." He couldn't hide the biting edge of his voice, the hot resentment barely concealed in the hard lines of his face. He turned away from her.
"That's all you can say?" She asked incredulously, her voice rising. What else was he supposed to say? That he was happy? There was already enough going on, having her here would only make it worse.
"Loo-k don't ma-ke a sce-ne. I'm sur-e mother would-n't wan-t-"
"When have you ever cared about what mother said?" She said sharply, her eyes narrowed, her brows forming straight thick black lines abover her bright eyes.
"I nev-er hav-e." Miles bit his tongue, keeping him from saying anything that he would regret especially now that he could feel the anger within him grow every second that passed.
"Su-"
"I kn-ow y-ou'd rather be somewhere el-se, this conversati-on in its-elf is pointle-ss."
Bella's eyes nostrils flared. A snarl curling her pink lips.
"How dare you? Do you know who I am or have you forgotten?"
Miles remained silent. Of course he knew who she was to everyone else. One of the most popular supermodels in the whole of Acacia, if not the world. Stunning looks with great charisma to match. A brand ambassador and many more things, painted in a good light mainly by her white smile and daring sharp eyes. But to him, she would always remain everyone's doll. The one that got all she wanted including what she didn't deserve. The object of everyone's adoration. The one that he was compared with on a daily basis. His mother's toy.
"Yes, ye-s I do in fact." He repeated in a quiet voice, blank and devoid of feeling even though the ferocity pulsed underneath his skin in light waves. He walked away, pushing past the curious officers before he entered the room. Something that he should have obviously prepared himself for.
The visible black tendrils of smoke continued to dawdle about, the pungent smell of charred flesh that intertwined it making his insides turn cold. His left eye refused to blink with his other right one, unable to clear the irritation that the smoke had caused. The burning increased and in an instant, he fished out the dented eye drops that he had stowed away in his pocket, tilting his head back before applying it quickly. The cooling sensation that followed after extinguished the discomfort and he quickly wore the eye patch hung around his neck underneath his flannel shirt, making sure the elastic straps didn't cover his other un-paralyzed eye and sat above his ear.
Miles turned his attention back to the task. His father laid on the bed. His breath left his lungs. His muscles seized, locking into tighter knots as he slowly stepped towards him. The air in his chest began to burn as his dark eye briefly flicked through the extent of the destruction that the flames had caused. The bitter taste worsened, making his gut curdle and his arms itch with goosebumps all over. The memories threatened to drown him, trying to topple over the control he had held, or tried to. With a sickening crunch flinging from a memory, he finally glanced away from his father, the numbness pulsating down his length, confusion and a flurry of other emotions also entering into battle with each other.
Footsteps behind him told him that the officers and CSIs would have probably entered now. Checking around and looking for any evidence they could find. Miles walked to the window that sat by the wall opposite the bed, shutters hanging loosely front of it as only slits of sunlight escaped into the room congregating to give the room more lighting. Miles pullyed down the rope, letting them slide up with scratching noises that betrayed their age.
He checked the window panes and saw a sheen of what looked like frost had formed along the surface. He scrutinized it, eyebrows furrowed, wondering how such a thing would occur given the heat at this time of year. He touched it lightly and it was cold as it looked, and despite the rays of sunlight that scratched against the window it still remained adamant, freezed over and though they were in the Artic.
Miles noted it down in his notebook, his neat handwriting unfurling as he bent over, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Soon he heard shuffling from behind him, he turned to see the forensics laying the corpse before cartering it away. A lump rose in his throat as he watched them go. Now, alone, he forced himself to think of the situation. He took a few steps back, finding himself at the door and took a clean sweep of the room.
The bed stayed at the centre of the room, a divan bed that had been switched out for the double divan bed after his parents' divorce. A sour taste filled his mouth but he ignored it. He walked towards it before kneeling beside it. Charred elements and remnant puddles of liquefied flesh now stained the bluish white bedspread, black swathes stretching along the material with its ashy scent. The bed sheet was still relatively well made, except obvious crinkles around where his father lay, most likely from where he would have been writhing from the flames.
His eyes moved away from the bed and went back to the other furniture, the wardrobe stood off to the side, its doors still closed shut, the chest of drawers beside the bed standing at attention with his father's phone, a torchlight and his car keys neatly placed on top. A mirror stood at the wall facing the bed which was next to the door which led to the bathroom. The floor was clean, sparkling without a smudge of dirt peppered on the wooden flooring. He knew there had apparently being no struggle against him and whoever the pepetrator was.
He must have come by night and caught his father unawares in his sleep. Miles rubbed a hand over his clean shaven jaw, even then, he knew his father was a light sleeper. The littlest sounds woken him up. Even when the man was drunk and passed out. An image of a bottle being smashed over his back came in full force. His back almost arched involuntarily, a hiss at the tip of his tongue only stilled by the possible presence of people outside. Like that his uneven breathing that he had tried to still became more haggard, loudening gasps breaking the silence.
Keep yourself together. But he couldn't, the memories pushed harder, glazing him with the sickening feelings that pulsed within him every single day that he had lived in this house. The headache that he had gotten momentary relief from returned with a harsh ferocity, his world began to blur a bit, coming in and out of view as exhaustion slammed into him. His numbing fingers lost all feeling and he had to dig his hands into the palm of his hands to resurrect even a semblance of it.
Despite this, he looked around, noting down the things he could while his whole body threatened to keep over, swaying every four steps. After that, the familiar sense of frustration overtook him, the same that strangled him whenever he woke up in screams. The thought of his sister briefly touched him but he pushed it away. For whatever reason she came, he didn't know, neither did he care to. His sister, like his parents were both dead to him.
A hollow feeling swept through every crevice of his body.
Once again that voiceless thought whispered that if only the cold of death could breeze past his shell....
He shook his head before walking out the door.