three.

Chapter 3,

 

Pierre often wondered why people get irked by the mere sight of him. By societal standards, he was decent. He dressed normally, he may be an emotional recluse but indeed, he talks to people his age, although most of the time it’s a mere exchange of simple questions and answers.

He cannot give them more than that.

He wasn’t a full-blown jerk, he’s just, well…him. But he’s looked upon by many like a social pest; a blemished child of an adulterer. Maybe he’ll always have that mark, sometimes just for the heck of it, he even thought of sewing the ‘A’ sign over his clothes, just to see if the act will keep the criticisms at bay now that they knew he took notice.

But overtime, the idea lost its appeal, simply because he realized that no matter what he does, he’ll still be the adulterer’s child.

If not looked upon as one, he’s pitied. He wasn’t sure what’s worse between the two.

Sometimes he would simply think to himself, would those same people who looked at him that way ever wondered what his face would look like in happiness? How it looked like when his smile curve in a rare smile? Surely they do not even think of those, who is he anyway? He’s just an object to rue. To think it had been years since his mother’s adultery happened, people still hadn’t forgotten. Hadn’t forgiven him for something he has no control over.

He struggled to keep his actions at the minimum, but as time wore on, he realized it doesn’t necessarily matter what he does—the voices keep coming anyway.

So he just lived and thought that maybe, that’s all that matters; to keep wading in the current of life amidst the roar of other’s voices.

 

<:>

 

It was Thursday when Pierre decided to drop by Liv’s place.

He really stepped inside the humble home that day. Out of curiousity maybe. He wanted to know if changes happened since Liv’s mom moved out or if anything was even changed—except from the fact that instead of three, the home now housed two people. His usual spot by the door wouldn’t reveal anything but the hall and there’s not much to see. The highlights are probably the two guard terriers sleeping at the foot of the stairs, and even the lazy bats of their eyes on his direction wasn’t something to be excited about.

He was greeted by the disheveled Mr. Greene who was as surprised as he was.

“Is Liv inside?” He knew he came too early, but since classes were suspended that day he decided to proceed to the Greenes.

When he regained his curt shock of seeing Pierre on their door, Robert beckoned him closer as if asking for a hug. “Come here son!” he chuckled heartedly while beaming a smile at the hesitant Pierre.

Given a hefty distance for observation, Robert Greene gives a commanding stature. He was the father any child would cower once gazed upon by those beetle black eyes, but amidst it, the warmth his personality exudes contradicts the initial personality people often sees in him. He was after all, a painter, and for Pierre artists are supposed to be outgoing and warm, crazy even to some extent.

Up close he wasn’t like the man Pierre sees from his car on a distance every time he drops Liv. He wasn’t sick but Pierre could tell that he is not in a good shape either. The creases on his face were more evident than the last time the younger man had a good look in it. But one thing didn’t waver; the warmth in his smile and the warm glow of his personality.

His shirt was smeared with paint; maybe the old man was up early, painting. He was taken aback by the old man’s morning get up that he couldn’t help but step back a little.

“She’d be down in a minute. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable inside?” Even with tempting thoughts of backing out, Pierre still followed the older man silently inside and took notice of his surroundings. Everything looked the same from when he could still remember—the sofas are still faded, the carpet was the same, some of the most beautiful portraits painted by Liv’s father hung on the walls, the walls marked by intricate designs Robert himself created and of Liv’s doodles from when she was younger are still evident on the surface.

About fifteen minutes fled before he heard the familiar pad of light footsteps make their way down the stairs. And there stood with eyes glinting in astonishment is the only person he really allowed to establish attachment.

“You’re inside! I mean, you’re really here standing in our freshly laundered carpet!”

“Stop gaping, silly.”

“But you surprised me.”

“I could tell.” He smirked down to her as she gaped at him.

By the way she was marveling at him, Pierre couldn’t help but get uneasy at the possibility of her hugging him then and there.

He wasn’t sure he wanted that.

But he wasn’t sure he didn’t want it, too.

Her hair was in a loose bun, tendrils cascading beautifully on her cheeks. She’s still in her PJs, and by the look of it, she might’ve stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. She had black rings of exhaustion under her eyes, a sure sign she was up reading or if not, probably writing.

She guided him to their table, but Pierre stepped back at little, lingering by the corner. “I’ll wait for you outside. Take your time.” He looked over at the appealing sight of the table; it wasn’t something she would want to rush dealing with.

“No. We’re not going anywhere,” she wore the unwavering expression, and Pierre knew then that indeed, all his predetermined plans for the day are broken.

She smiled and proceeded on the dining room. The big rectangular table seemed a bit out of place in a home which housed two people. He used to play there when he was younger, even carved a portion with his and Liv’s name, as if marking the lone table as theirs.

Liv patted a seat next to her and said, “We’ll stay here.”

 

- - -

 

He paraded the living room, making little movements as possible. In front of him, the curtains fall quietly in rhyme with the steady blow of the air from the outside. His eyes grazed over the staircase to his right, envisioning the little Pierre and Olivia who used to sit on the same brown steps before. The sun’s rays penetrated through the window at the side, showering the steps with an appealing noon glow.

Pierre couldn’t help but think why he stopped coming altogether, especially when this kind of homey feeling sits inside the whole of the Greene’s. The home itself seemed too accommodating, as if it wanted him to stay and never leave. And he guessed that might’ve scared him; he didn’t want to get too attached to something that he’ll probably abandon, especially to something as inanimate as a house.

He heard the unintelligible conversation between father and daughter, Liv’s chuckle soon followed, the sound of flowing water accompanying it. Burying his chucks on the carpet, Pierre wondered if her every day consisted of that—a hearty conversation with a parent, a nice atmosphere, and just a perfect household. Hearing her laugh like that, he realized the feeling must’ve been nice, considering she grew up to be a fine woman.

But more than that, he wondered if he would’ve been brought up to that kind of home, would he too be like her? Would he be more likeable? More accepted by society?

Would he be happy?

He peeked and saw Mr. Green looking lovingly at his daughter.

Then he knew; he would be happy waking up to something like this.

 

- - -

 

“Are you finally going to tell me why you decided to ditch my plans on such fine day to stay holed up in your room?”

“We don’t need to stay outdoors to appreciate such fine day.” They were inside her room, and nothing much had changed in here, too. He actually expected to find the changes in here, but aside from more paintings done by her father hanging on the wall and more books by the bookshelves, Liv’s room looked the same. Inside he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought that nothing had changed and here he was standing, waiting to decipher changes aside from those that happened to him.

The last time he went there they were playing hide and seek.

He found Liv on her cabinet, buried in a pile of clothing, crying.

That was the last time they played that game.

Pierre walked to her side and waited for her to stop the wandering of her hands on the thin and thick book spines lining her wall. “I couldn’t write last night.”

“Hmm?”

“I said, I couldn’t write.”

He wasn’t used to hearing her talk about writing, especially not being able to. Every day, even on the ride home, she was never without a notebook or a single piece of paper around. If not those, she usually jots ideas and words on her arm and anywhere she could indite the thoughts exiting from her mind, her skin becoming a wide canvas to write those pieces with.

“What did you do then?”

“I wrote about not being able to write.”

Perhaps I could die about not being able to live; he mused but erased the silly thought forming on his mind.

She hid the paper strewn over the whole of her bed and patted a portion clean. “Why?”

“A person once told me it works.”

“Did it work for you?”

“Sadly, it didn’t.”

He wanted to help her, in an oblivious way just to appease her mind, so he started slowly, “Perhaps… you could write about the clouds.”

His own hands reached for her cloud ceiling, extending another hand upward, stretching to touch the painted clouds whose overlapping colors of sky blue and white brought sleepiness into him. Pierre wanted to feel their softness on his fingertips. A tired yawn soon escaped his mouth, and he retreated to the waiting bed behind him, the bed springs creaking under the sudden pull of his weight.

Liv’s weight soon followed, and even her timid movement made wrinkles on her carefully made-up bed. Armed with a sharpie, she turned her head to where he was lying, and cupped a dry hand over his eyes. He tried opening his tired eyes, peeking through the slits of her fingers, the faint smell of vanilla from her hand made its way to his nose.

Liv did something that surprised her even—she reached for Pierre’s arm and started scribbling, tickling him a bit by doing so. One word at a time. She could see his eyebrows meet at the middle, but after a few minutes, she could see him smiling, his mouth moving as it silently follows through what she had written.

For the night she cried, the stars glittered with outmost pride. A pride they lent her; the pride she used to battle all her demons the day right after.

He decided to stay quiet after he realized how drawn she was to whatever she was doing.

Watching her do her craft in his skin allowed his own thoughts to roam free and create his own version of the piece she etched on his arm.

And she glittered with outmost pride, and spared him with the light shining through everything she does.

For the second time, she touched him once more, this time he couldn’t help but shudder at the contact her tepid skin made on his cold one. She felt warm, and his insides tightened when she held his arm, but she felt the exact opposite.

She was calm because this, the man on her side, was Pierre. She’s secure.

They spent the remaining hours with him reading the dog-eared copy of Tuck Everlasting and her writing—now on a piece of paper, whipping out prose. Liv’s smile permanently settled on her face, glad that her writing muse was back. Occasionally he would see her stop to write something on a piece of paper lying on her belly.

He stared at his ink-streaked arm, reveling at the words she threaded unto his skin. Marveling at the eloquence she had within her, scowling at the idea of her not being confident about her ability to manipulate words and have them talking to him.

It was warm that afternoon, and spending it with her there, just reading, he realized that indeed, they don’t need to stay outdoors to appreciate such fine day.

Because truthfully, she was his idea of a fine day.

 

- - -

 

Pierre came home to a lonely house, one that clearly does not resemble the sublime yet suffocating atmosphere of the house he had just been; this, actually, it quite haunting, with its cream-colored walls stretching out to different directions, as if beckoning him to come to them. He chose his piano’s bench for a while and sighed deeply, the act itself becoming the reason for him to live.

He rested his head on the soft cushion who breathe its relief under his weight, thinking about what happened during the day. He tinkered with the keys of the piano, inhaling their simple notes the way he’d inhale air itself.

His left arm is still marked with intelligible ink, most of which are preserved by his cautioned movements. He wanted to have her mark with him for as long as possible, and remember the words that mattered to her that afternoon, denying the fact that the same compilation of words made little sense to him, but mattered nonetheless.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was scribbling the same phrases etched on his arm to a pad of paper lying atop the piano.

Because he wanted to feel the bliss a little longer, he kept a part of her and preserved it.

A little longer, that’s all he need.

 

- - -

 

Lying on her bed hours after Pierre went home, Liv couldn’t help but think about how everything can happen spontaneously. Here she is on the verge of sleeping her head off, and Pierre is probably getting ready to do the same. Her thought wandered off to her mother, five hours away in a home she shared with a man she is about to marry.

The man who stole her heart from his father.

From them.

She wasn’t spiteful at how the events turned in her life, but given a chance to change anything, she wouldn’t have her parents opt divorce. She might’ve egged them to rethink their marriage, patch the gap of their relationship, and think about her; what she might’ve felt, what would happen to her.

But alas, she did as she was expected; she kept quiet and accepted whatever happened. Albeit hoping that she could turn back time.