Finding a Yandere in Reverse World

Chapter 33: Eye Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter

The light flickers across the ornate dining table, casting dancing shadows on the faces of my family and our hosts. I can't help but marvel at the surreal nature of this gathering, the Knight mansion's grandeur a stark contrast to the palpable tension in the air.

"I... I really appreciate everyone coming together for Thanksgiving," I begin, my voice wavering slightly as I glance between Mom and Vivian. Their eyes refuse to meet like opposing magnets. "It means a lot to me that all my family, old and new, could be here.”

I trail off, unsure how to tactfully address the elephant in the room. Mom's fingers tightened around her wine glass, and her knuckles whitened.

"Of course, Jason," she says, her smile as brittle as spun sugar. "We're happy to be here. Aren't we, girls?"

Brooke nods silently beside me, her hazel eyes darting nervously between the matriarchs at either end of the table. I feel a familiar pang in my chest at her discomfort, wishing I could ease it somehow.

Vivian's gaze snaps to Mom. She had been drinking far more than usual. "Well, isn't this a turn of events?" she drawls, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Emily Parker, sitting at my table. It's... odd, seeing my high school bully so docile as an adult."

Mom flinches as if slapped, her facade crumbling. I watch her shrink into herself, feeling a mixture of sympathy and frustration. Why did Erica insist on this instead of just doing two Thanksgivings?

Erica snorts from her place beside me, slouching in her chair with a vape pen in her mouth. "Jeez, Mom," she mutters. "Way to keep it classy."

I shoot Erica a grateful look, relieved for the momentary diffusion of tension. She catches my eye and winks, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Despite everything, I feel a warmth bloom in my chest at her silent support.

Rachel's amber eyes glimmer with mischief in the light as she leans forward, her sleek ponytail swaying with the movement. "Well, now I'm intrigued," she says, her voice carrying a hint of playful curiosity. "What exactly happened between you two in high school? It seems like there's quite a story there."

The tension in the room thickens, like a fog rolling in from the sea. Vivian's cheeks are flushed, her normally composed demeanor slipping as she takes another generous sip of wine.

"It's not complicated, really," Vivian slurs, her words slightly elongated. She waves her hand dismissively, nearly knocking over a delicate centerpiece of autumn flowers. "Emily was a cunt in high school. Plain and simple."

A collective gasp ripples through the room. Erica chokes on her vape, coughing out a plume of sweetly scented smoke. My eyes widened in shock, darting between Mom and Vivian.

Mom’s face pales, her fingers trembling slightly as she sets down her wine glass with a soft clink. She takes a deep breath. "I... I didn't know our kids would end up together when we were young," she says. "If I had, I would have been nicer to you."

Vivian's eyes narrow, a spark of righteous indignation cutting through her alcohol-induced haze. She leans forward, her blonde bob swinging with the sudden movement. "That's an awful thing to say," she retorts, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You should be nice just for the sake of it. Not because you might gain something from it later."

I watch in horror as the situation spirals out of control. The light seems to flare brighter, casting stark shadows across Mom's face as she leans forward, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt.

"Your daughter was the bully of the town," Mom snaps, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "Don't you dare act high and mighty when Erica terrorized half the school!"

Vivian's face contorts, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across her features. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into the tablecloth as she retorts, "Not anymore," her voice defensive and tinged with a mother's fierce pride.

I glance at Erica, catching the slight wince that crosses her face at my mom's accusation. Her usual bravado falters for a moment, and I feel a surge of protectiveness towards her.

But before I can intervene, Mom's next words freeze the blood in my veins. She sways slightly in her seat, the wine clearly affecting her judgment as she slurs, "Oh please, Vivian. Erica only calmed down because she and Jason fuck all day. I mean for christ’s sake we all read the diary after we took it out of evidence right?”

The room goes deathly silent. Brooke, who had been taking a sip of water, nearly choked, coughing and spluttering as she set her glass down with a clatter. Her eyes are wide with shock, darting between Erica and me. ‘Stop acting surprised, Brooke. We’ve done this before.’ I think in annoyance.

To my surprise, Rachel's reaction is entirely different. A slow, proud smile spreads across her face as she looks at Erica, her eyes twinkling with what can only be described as sisterly approval.

I feel my face burning, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck and flooding my cheeks. I almost vomit at the thought of my mother reading my diary. ‘Big L, huge, huge, monumental L.’ I want nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear. But as I glance at Erica, I'm taken aback by her expression.

Instead of shame or anger, there's a fierce pride in her eyes. She meets my gaze unflinchingly, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Under the table, I feel her hand squeeze my thigh reassuringly, and despite the mortification of the moment, I can't help but feel a surge of affection for her.

Vivian's face contorts with fury, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the polished mahogany of the dining table.

"How dare you!" she bellows, her voice reverberating through the cavernous dining room. "You don't say shit like that on Thanksgiving, Emily! This is supposed to be a day of gratitude, not... not airing our children's private affairs!"

The crystal chandelier above trembles with the force of her words, tiny rainbows dancing across the walls as the light refracts through the swaying prisms. Mom, seemingly unfazed by Vivian's outburst, reaches for the ornate wine decanter. With a steady hand that belies her intoxication, she refills her glass to the brim, the rich burgundy liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Oh, who cares?" Mom slurs out some more, her words flowing as freely as the wine. She gestures expansively with her glass, narrowly avoiding a catastrophic spill. "Look at them, Vivian. Those two are clearly happier than anyone else at the table. Isn't that what we all want for our children?"

Her gaze, surprisingly lucid despite the alcohol, fixes on Erica and me. I feel exposed, like a butterfly pinned to a board, as Vivian's eyes follow Mom's to where we sit.

In a moment of panic, I reach for my own wine glass. The cool crystal is a welcome anchor against my sweating palm as I bring it to my lips, tilting it back and draining its contents in one long, desperate gulp. The wine burns a path down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

Before I can even set the empty glass down, Erica's hand is there, pressing her own full glass into my grasp. Her blue eyes meet mine, a hunger deeply inscribed in them. "Here," she murmurs, her voice low and husky. "You look like you need this more than I do."

I don't hesitate, bringing the second glass to my lips. As I begin to drink, I hear my mom's drunken laughter echoing through the room, a sound both jarring and oddly comforting in its familiarity.

"Erica," I hear mom say between gulps, her voice suddenly tinged with worry. "Maybe you should slow him down a bit."

Erica's gaze doesn't waver from mine as she nods at my mother. "Of course, Mrs. Parker. I’ll make sure he paces himself," she assures smoothly, her tone dismissing any real concern.

Yet, even as she speaks, Erica's fingers gently guide the rim of the glass closer to my lips, tipping it slightly so the rich, amber liquid teeters on the brink of spilling into my mouth. I swallow reflexively, the warmth of the wine spreading through my chest in a comforting blaze.

Brooke’s voice cuts through the thick ambiance of the room like a cold draft. "What are you doing, Erica? Trying to get him drunk enough to drag him off to bed?" Her eyes flash with a mix of anger and protective fear as she stands from her chair, her posture rigid with tension.

Erica shrugs nonchalantly, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "I just think he's really cute when he’s drunk," she replies with an impish gleam in her eyes, not bothering to hide her intentions or temper Brooke’s accusation.

Vivian gives Brooke a look of confusion. Before another word can be said, Rachel leans forward from where she has been quietly observing the interactions. Her voice is calm but carries an undercurrent of firmness that commands attention.

"Brooke," Rachel chides gently yet firmly, "From what I’ve overheard from my own room nearby, it’s usually Jason here who initiates far more often than not."

“Come on.” I mutter under my breath. The revelation hangs heavy in the air, and I can't help but feel a heat rise to my cheeks, not just from the wine now coursing through me but also from the unexpected defense that paints me in a different light than what Brooke has suggested.

Brooke's face contorts with a mixture of shock and fury, her hazel eyes widening before narrowing to slits. She stares at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, her gaze boring into me like twin lasers.

Just as Brooke opens her mouth to speak, Mom's drunken voice cuts through the silence like a foghorn. "Jason, darling. Whatever happened to that girl's eye?”

The room goes deathly quiet. I feel all eyes turn to me. ‘Fuck!’ I think to myself, almost getting away with potentially the biggest blunder of this relationship. ‘I really hope Viv doesn't get too mad about this one.’

I clear my throat, the sound echoing in the cavernous dining room. "Well, um, it's kind of a funny story, actually." I force a weak chuckle, but it falls flat in the stunned silence. "I, uh, I had it in my pocket for a while. You know, as a... souvenir? But then I forgot about it once I got home. I think I gave the pants it was to one of Vivian's maids when she offered to do my laundry."

The confession hangs in the air like a noxious cloud. Vivian's face pales, her perfectly applied makeup suddenly stark against her ashen skin. Erica, on the other hand, looks oddly impressed, a small smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

"I was... I was too afraid to say anything before," I admit, my words tumbling out in a rush. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you bring up over dinner, you know?"

Brooke's face contorts with a mixture of horror and disgust. Her hazel eyes, wide with disbelief, dart between me and Erica as if trying to piece together a grotesque puzzle. The light flickers across her features, casting eerie shadows that seem to dance with her growing agitation.

"You're... you're unhinged," Brooke finally manages to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air like a toxin, seeping into every corner of the opulent dining room. "Keeping a human eye as a souvenir? That's not normal, Jason. That's not okay! And then losing track of it!"

"Oh, fuck off, Brooke," Erica counters, her blue eyes glinting dangerously in the low light. "You weren't there. You don't know what he went through." Her words are sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. "If keeping the eye helped him cope, who are we to judge?"

Vivian, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks. Her voice trembles slightly, betraying the shock beneath her composed exterior. "I... I must admit, I'm horrified you lost it, Jason," she begins, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a nervous rhythm on the polished mahogany table. "But... I think I understand the act of taking it."

‘I was just mad. It’s really not complicated.’ I think to myself.

She pauses, taking a deep breath that causes the delicate pearls at her throat to rise and fall. "After what those... those monsters did to you. It's no wonder you were so traumatized." Her eyes are filled with a mixture of sympathy and residual fear. "Trauma can make us do things we never thought we were capable of."

Mom's eyes glaze over, a dreamy expression settling on her flushed face. The light dances in her dilated pupils as she leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. Her wine-stained lips curl into a slow, almost predatory smile.

"I wonder," she muses, her voice a husky whisper that somehow fills the cavernous dining room, "where that little eye ended up." She giggles, the sound high and tinkling like crystal wind chimes in a storm. "Maybe it's still out there somewhere, watching us even now."

Her gaze drifts to the ornate wallpaper, tracing the intricate patterns as if searching for hidden eyes among the swirls and flourishes. The flickering light seems to bring the designs to life, creating an illusion of movement that adds to the surreal atmosphere.

"Perhaps it's rolled under a piece of furniture," Mom continues, her words slurring slightly, but her eyes alight with fascination. "Or maybe one of the maids found it and kept it as her own little secret." She lets out another giggle, this one darker, more resonant. "Oh, the stories it could tell."

Erica, however, is watching Mom with newfound interest. Her blue eyes narrow, a calculating look crossing her features. She takes a long drag from her vape, the sweet-scented smoke curling around her like a familiar spirit.

"Well, well, well." Erica drawls, her voice low and tinged with amusement. "Looks like you are far more like your mother than I thought, Jason." She turns to me, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "That dark curiosity, that hint of... let's call it 'unconventional thinking.' It's written all over both your faces."

‘Yeah, Mom, what the fuck was that? We could have been such a dynamic duo if you were like that while I was growing up.’ I can't help but wonder about the life stolen from me by my mother's incompetence at parenting.

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