Page 33 of Tainted Love

“No,” he responds. “He’s never home. And even if he were, he wouldn’t care.”

My mom’s brow furrows with worry as she presses on, “How old are you, Michael?”

“I’m eighteen,” he answers, his voice filled with hesitation.

“Well, then it’s settled. You’ve reached adulthood, and he has no say in the matter anyway. You are more than welcome to stay with us.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition,” he says, his words laced with uncertainty.

“That’s nonsense,” she replies confidently. “You will stay with us.”

“Until you get better,” I add hopefully.

“As long as you want,” Mom corrects me with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with kindness and understanding.

“Well, not forever,” I say in a panic, my voice rising slightly. “It’s not like he’s going to live here, right?”

My mom smiles knowingly and nods her head. “Sure, he can. We have the room, Sascha,” she reassures me with a warm smile. “Michael can stay as long as he wants. I insist.”

Before I can protest further, my mom gives me a pointed look, and I know it’s not worth arguing. She turns to Michael, who is standing awkwardly by the doorway, and welcomes him with open arms.

“Go and get Michael a glass of water, Sascha,” my mom says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “I’ll make up the guest room.”

As I grab a glass of water for my mortal enemy, I think about how differently my Saturday plans have turned out. Instead of a quiet day filled with music and art, I’m now waiting on Michael, who is my new roommate. What in the actual fuck is this life?

Chapter 15

“It's My Life”

Taz - Age 18, 1988

Well, this is an interesting turn of events. I look around the guest room at Sascha Bell’s house and wonder how things got so out of control that I live here now, apparently, at least for the time being.

I don’t love accepting help from Sascha and her parents, but the truth is, I’m not sure what to do, and I need some space and time to figure some things out.

As much as I hate to admit it, there’s a twisted satisfaction in watching Sascha reluctantly do nice things for me. The conflict evident in her striking green eyes is almost palpable. Her caring nature won’t allow her to turn her back on someone in need, but deep down, she just wants me to heal quickly so she can resume pretending that she hates me.

It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent, homemade meal, and after unleashing my fury on my brother, I’m famished. Mrs. Bell has outdone herself with a bomb casserole and a side of perfectly cooked vegetables. Surprisingly, my neglected taste buds seem to enjoy them.

After dinner, while Sascha and her mother clean up, Mr. Bell offers to drive me to my house to gather some things. He mentions having a friend who is the local Sheriff on call, just in case things go south with my brother. But fortunately for me, Brian isn’t home when we arrive.

The place is a wreck, but at least my room isn’t trashed. I can grab my stuff and haul it back to the Bells, along with my truck.

I didn’t feel anything when I left my house. There was no sense of sadness as I shut the door on that part of my life. The truth is, it hasn’t been my home in a very long time.

Sascha’s dad is a kind man with a clear set of principles and a few rules. He told me on the way here that as long as I’m living with them, there will be no alcohol, no drugs, no girls staying the night. The poor guy doesn’t realize the one girl I want is now a mere ten feet away. Honesty is the best policy in most situations, but I’ll skip that little pearl today.

But he’s a good man, and I will do my best to respect his rules. He’s the kind of father one can look up to. I can see where Sascha gets her ideals and strength from.

I sigh heavily and drop my meager belongings onto the guest room floor. The space is surprisingly large, with a full-sized bed dominating one corner and a small dresser against another wall. As Mrs. Bell had mentioned earlier, they have fostered many children over the years, and I can’t help but wonder how many other lost souls have spent their nights in this very room.

Falling back onto the bed, I wince in pain as my ribs protest any sudden movements. I stare at the ceiling, trying to distract myself from the discomfort. Then, I notice the scent of my armpits, a reminder that I haven’t showered since last night’s unfortunate events. There’s no way I’m getting into a clean bed like this; I might as well have slept in a ditch.

Pushing myself up, I walk into the hallway, heading toward the bathroom, straining to hear any signs of life. Downstairs, I can hear the muffled sound of a television playing and Sascha’s parents enthusiastically participating in the game show Jeopardy. Their laughter fills the house with warmth and makes it feel more like home.

Sascha’s room is next to mine, and I can hear soft music seeping through her closed door—a slow, dark melody that seems to mirror my current mood.

I close the bathroom door and take in all the girly amenities that carefully line the counter: strawberry Kissing Potion, Noxzema, St. Ives apricot face lotion, Cacharel Anais Anais eau de toilette spray, Neutrogena sesame oil, Bonne Bell Ten-O-Six deep cleanser lotion, and I am strangely comforted. The whole bathroom is peach from the wallpaper and towels all the way down to the fuzzy toilet lid cover and shaggy plush floor mat.