Donovan Chronicles: Awakening Ch. 01

They walk into a narrow hallway, the walls lined with marble and gold leaf accents. The desk they're approaching is old and large, the decorative work on the legs is exceptional; the finish work is dark; the desk is intimidating. Yet, as if to ease those who approach it a young woman sits behind it; her blonde hair tucked behind her ears and big blue eyes calling you so invitingly. "May I help you ma'am?" the receptionist asks.

"Yes; we have a one o'clock appointment with Mr. Berger for Donovan Rome." Kristen replies.

"Sure thing, right this way; please follow me" the receptionist responds as she elegantly stands up from the chair behind the desk. She is wearing a surprisingly short black skirt with a pink blouse tucked in. Her skin is tan and her diamond necklace, earrings and engagement ring sparkle like twinkling lights as she moves through the hallway. She approaches a big set of double wooden doors with large handles and a well placed knocker at waist height. She lifts the knocker; it looks heavy as the right side of her neck tenses up exposing the veins and ligaments supporting it. "Bang....Bang.......Bang" is the loud and deep sound the door makes as the pretty secretary swings the door knocker down, hitting the wood underneath it. "Come in" a faint voice is heard within, Donovan is somewhat scared; this place seems very intimidating and he's always heard bad things about old Mr. Berger and Mr. Strom.

Donovan walks in and is greeted by an older man sitting behind an even more intimidating desk; his aunt follows him and proceeds to head to her left in a direct line to an old leather chair. Donovan notices his aunts' movements and he himself proceeds to the chair that accompanies it to its right. As they get closer to the chairs the old man says "Please, please have a seat; we will get started right away." Donovan and his Aunt carefully sit down in the cushy leather chairs, all Donovan can smell in the room is sweet cigars and the familiar smell of old people. The man looks down at his desk and grabs a leather bound folder in his right hand, pulls is left hand up and begins to unwind a piece of string that's binding it shut. "Ok, well Donovan; you were lucky enough for your parents to have made a will. I can't tell you how many times people in your situation have come into my office with no guidance left behind by their loved ones" Mr. Berger says. "I'm very sorry for your loss son; I'm hoping the contents of this will are able to help you start a new life while remembering those you lost along the way."

"Now, in the matter of their death of Mr. Elliot Mathew Rome and Mrs. Kimberly Lynn Rome I have their last will and testament." Mr. Berger proclaims. "Donovan, your parents saw too it to give you all of their belongings; including the house and the contents within. They have also given you the contents of their safety deposit box and savings accounts." Mr. Berger explains. "The amount you shall receive from the sale of these items is $36,128.23." Before Mr. Berger could finish, Kristen interrupts him.

"I'm sorry; the sale of these items, doesn't Donovan get to decide what to do with these items Mr. Berger". Mr. Berger clears his throat and with a slight hint of annoyance, "Mr. and Mrs. Rome had debt that needed to be paid yet on the house, as well as dept needed to be paid for Mrs. Rome's college loan. The items in their savings account and safety deposit boxes were not sufficient to pay these loans. As such I'm afraid to say the house must be sold to cover the remaining debt, the vehicle your father was in did not have insurance and the man who was driving the truck did not have insurance as well" he finishes. As he gathers his breath, he says "You can go after the man who killed your parents in a civil suit if you believe you are entitled to more money."

Immediately Kristen says "Yes, yes I believe we will do that; let's go Donovan."

Mr. Berger calls out quickly before she gets the chance to stand up "Please, the will still has a stipulation for the money he is about to receive. I'm sorry, the instructions his parents left said he is supposed to stay with," he looks down and reads from the will "a Mr. and Mrs. James Vitter of North Carolina" for one year before he is allowed to receive the money or he must wait until the eve of his twenty-first birthday"

Donovan starts to remember the funeral services and how a man and woman with that name approached him as if they knew him his whole life, they spoke to him earlier very fondly of his parents. Donovan remembers them slightly from the distant past; when he was a young boy and his family would visit them during the summer, visions of a young boy and a younger girl. He remembers very little but doesn't understand why his parents would force him to live with people he barely knows and why he is not staying with his only living relative.

"What, the Vitter's? Kim and Elliot were friends with them in college but Donovan needs that money for school, he needs that money to move on with his life" Kristen yells.

"I'm sorry, it is in the will and by law we cannot refute it; I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Rome had a reason and I'm sure the Vitter's would be able to answer any questions young Donovan might have." Mr. Berger said anxiously.

Another day has passed, and a for-sale sign has been posted on the lawn his mother and father cared for his entire life. A moving van is parked across the street; its tires worn and peeling paint suggest the contents going into the van may be of little value. Donovan sits on the steps watching two Hispanic men wearing grey jumper suits loading cardboard boxes overflowed with his things into the van. Another truck is parked behind it, it is a much nicer truck and the materials being loaded into this vehicle are being handled much more carefully as a man in a business suit catalogs the items being loaded. Suddenly Donovan spots a couple of movers bringing out the flat screen he enjoyed watching so much this past year. He hopes for a moment the people loading up the van will make a mistake, preying they load it into the van carrying his things. It does not come to pass; the TV is loaded, cataloged and neatly placed inside the van as the worker swiftly closes the two doors, sealing its contents for its final move. Donovan's heart sinks in his chest, not about the TV leaving him; but remembering the last thing he was watching as his parents passed away.

It figures, on all days to lose his parents items, of all days to have to drive across the country to live with a new family; this all happens because of the events that transpired on his birthday; the day in which his parents intended to give him his first car. Kristen exits the front door and places a hand on Donovan's shoulder as to signify that the time has come for him to leave his home for the last and final time. Donovan stands up slowly, his head swimming with thoughts and memories of the time he has spent in this very spot, the days he stared out into the street when he was only six watching the leaves change colors. A taxicab pulls up in front of his house as he turns around to hug his aunt goodbye. The smell of her clothes that she washed in his house, with his family's washing machine and detergent reminds him of his mother. His mind races to the trip that lay ahead of him, the sights he might see that excite and frighten him at the same time.

Donovan enters the taxicab, the seat is old and cold, ripped with pieces of Duct tape holding it together; this is not going to be a comfortable ride and he knows it. The moving van containing his few, yet personal items pulls forward; the taxi cab driver turns the car around and proceeds to follow it. They're heading towards his school as they stop at the first intersection, the breaks of the taxicab squeal, and the sound of grinding metal pierces his ears like nails on a chalkboard. They roll through the first intersection and he can see young Misty Dolphane playing in the front yard of her parent's house to his right. He looks to his left to see if he can spot Mr. Wilson outside; mowing his lawn in his terrible outfit that plagues Donovan's mind, but he is not there; the grass looks un-kept and that's unusual for Mr. Wilson.

As the taxicab approaches the second intersection Donovan's stomach starts to drop; visions of squad cars speeding towards them, crashing into them, sending him to his grave plague his already fragmented mind. The taxicab continues; quickly speeding by his old high school, his mind focuses on Jason; his friend in Paris who is unaware of what has happened and who won't be around to tell stories of sexual conquest.

It's dark now; the lights lining the street in this new suburb, this new city, in this new state; resemble nothing he has seen before. They lost the van before they were able to cross the state line; Donovan remembers hearing the taxi cab driver mumbling as the van weaved through speeding traffic on the highway. Donovan has no idea how long the van has been sitting outside this new home, if it has already been unpacked, or if they were simply awaiting his arrival. The taxi cab driver inches the car closer to the van making it impossible for anyone to unload it "Is this guy just trying to be a dick" Donovan thinks to himself.

A flickering light shines from a house directly adjacent from the moving van ahead of them; its dim light illuminates a small porch with white wicker furniture. He can see the coloring of the house resembles that of his old home, white accents embrace the door frames and wooden handrails erected along the steps. The front screen door opens, a faint figure of a woman stands underneath the light; her arms waving feverishly as though she's trying to flag down the paper boy who skipped her house once again. Donovan exits the cab and slowly marches up the sidewalk while glancing around at neighboring houses and vehicles that litter the street and driveways. He walks up the steps as the woman moves to the side and gently reaches her arm out to usher him into his new home. As he takes his first steps in, the woman swiftly moves along his side and turns around in front of him; like an eager salesman trying to pitch her wares.

She has straight sandy blonde hair, her bangs parted at the middle as her hair flows behind each small and flushed ear neatly tucking it in place. Her vivid blue eyes peek through her dark mascara, the blush on her cheeks accents her perfect complexion, her full lips slightly broken exposing glimmering white teeth. She's wearing a tight fitting v-neck shirt; the straps of her bra are shadowed along every crevice of the sun colored apparel. She smiles genuinely at Donovan exposing more of her perfect teeth as she takes a deep breath that heaves her ample breasts forward allowing the white colored bra to show through the overly stretched shirt she adorns. The shirt barely covers her; with each breath she takes the shirt rises revealing a tanned and tone stomach that lay beneath it. A brown belt with a gold clasp glimmers in the light that's shining directly above her, the texture of the leather shows vividly as darkness fills the crevices that the shadow cast upon it. She is wearing a pair of short faded blue shorts that only go half way down her thigh, they seem to fit her firmly as her skinny hips and thighs fill them in completely. He can see her mound forcing its way into the front of her shorts, breaking the straightness of her perfectly flat lap; this causes his pulse to quicken.

"Donovan, it's so good to see you again, please, please come inside and rest a little; you must be exhausted from that drive" she says to him. "I have a fresh towel in the bathroom down the hall and put fresh sheets on Mike's bed for you". Donovan remembers the name; he remembers the beach and an older boy named Mike who used to push him into the cold water. "That must be their son," he thought to himself and feeling slightly guilty "But where is Mike going to sleep" Donovan replies. "Oh heavens,

Mike got his own place during his senior year in college; he hasn't lived here in ages" the woman replies.

Donovan is struggling to remember her name; it was so chaotic at the funeral and wake with him just trying to come to grips with what happened as neighbors constantly reminded him of how sorry they were. "I know it starts with a G, Ginger, no, Jenny, no that's with a J; Georgia, ugh what is it; I can't call her ma'am the whole time and I'm definitely not calling her mother" he thinks to himself. He starts to think back to words and names that sounded familiar, it's right at the tip of his tongue but he can't seem to spit it out. "Gale, yeah, Gale Vitter that's it, that sounds familiar" he thinks to himself "Thanks Gale" he says with a look of accomplishment on his face. "Oh, no problem dear, if you need anything James and I will be in the kitchen; he should be home from school any moment" Gale responds.

"James Vitter, at school this time of night; that doesn't make much sense" Donovan thinks to himself as he shuffles his feet down the hall. He notices a light coming from a doorway to his right; he turns his head slightly and focuses his eyes inside as to not look to obvious. He sees the room is painted a light rose color with blotches of pink scattered throughout; the dresser has picture frames standing tall and proud; but he cannot see who is in the pictures. A closet with two French doors is open half way on the outer wall, revealing pastel colored clothes and an abundance of worn blue jeans. As he steps another foot forward he can now see the other side of the room, a large bed lay in the corner; a young woman laying on her stomach with her legs curled up and feet pointing at the ceiling. Her blond wavy hair flowing off her head and face; resting on pink blankets as her body lay in the opposite direction she would sleep in. A pillow is nestled under her chin, her eyes focused down towards a magazine while white streams of plastic connect her red IPod to the ears hidden beneath her stringy hair.

Donovan notices another door to his right with a light immediately past the bedroom with the reading girl. He can tell by the colors and texture of the walls that it must be the bathroom; he turns his head to look inside and sees a large blue towel folded on the large sink with stone accents surrounding an oval mirror. He takes a few more steps to look into the only remaining doorway; it surprises him that the last room would be on his left, as the hallway seemed to be on the left side of the house. He peaks his head inside and notices a room with dark blue colored walls, the ceiling painted white and the furniture inside looks very contemporary. A glass nightstand accompanies a bed only a foot off the ground, the wood is dark and the flat piece that supports the mattress extrudes almost a foot on each side. He can barely make out what looks to be a couple of drawers that support the bed, as if the bed was merely placed on top of a busted dresser by a carpenter with little to no skill.

Donovan turns around and heads back towards the bathroom, moving swiftly and quietly so as not to catch the reading girl's attention. He slides into the bathroom and slowly shuts the door behind him; he is anxious and nervous but feels more confident in such a closed area. He notices the bathroom does not have a tub, but instead has two large plastic panels lightly frosted sitting only a few inches above the floor. He reaches his hand towards the panels and spots a recess within the one to his left. He puts his fingertips in the recess and gently pushes the panel to his right; the soft sound of rollers fills the small bathroom as the door slides open. He is taken aback slightly as the shower does not resemble anything he has seen before, his home or the hotels his family stayed at during vacations where neither this large nor elaborate. This shower had a very large shower head on top and then six smaller ones running down the wall. He looked to his right and saw on the opposite side two more shower heads with a separate knob in-between them.

He quickly turns around and starts reaching up towards his chest, his fingers resting on clear buttons that are holding his white cotton shirt closed. His fingers move effortlessly from one button to the next, each time a button was undone his hands would separate his shirt from his body. As he unbuttoned the very last he took both hands and gripped the shirt at the bottom; twisting and pulling the shirt off of his shoulders and placing it around his back. He lets go of his grip, the white shirt slides off his shoulders and falls to the floor as his hands easily slide through the short sleeves letting it float down to the cold bathroom floor. He looks down at the button holding his black pants together, his eyes focus to his left foot as it moves forward allowing his right shoe to catch the back of his left heel. He pulls his left foot back and the shoe falls off his foot and lands on the floor with a "flop"; he immediately proceeds to follow suit with his other shoe. His eyes focus back up to his pants as his finger grasp the top of his jeans, his right hand pulling the right side of his jeans towards his stomach as his left fingers twist his left side of the pants away from his body. His zipper, heavily worn, begins to unzip itself as the tops of his jeans begin to part. Underneath his dark pants the light blue cotton of his boxer shorts peak through the now growing opening. He slides his thumbs between his stomach and the elastic of his boxers and pushes them towards the floor, the heaviness of his clothes does not require him to bend over; they fall to the floor without hesitation.

He kicks off his socks and steps into the shower with great caution, curious on how the sprayers work and even more curious on how such a lightly frosted glass provides privacy to those in the shower. He turns the large knob facing directly at him to the right, following the arch as the color painted on the knob turns from blue to red. He immediately is hit with cold water from all of the spouts surrounding him, he tries his best but cannot contain from releasing a slight yelp. "This is fuck'n, cold; holy shit" he mumbles quietly as to not offend anyone who might be able to hear him in this unfamiliar house. The water warms quickly and his hands start to mess with the individual sprayers, directing them at different areas of his body. The sensation of all of these streams of water hitting him in places he has never experienced before was exhilarating.

He sees a large raised platform in the corner of the shower; it looks big enough to sit on as it holds countless bottles of shampoo and body wash. He can see a pink and blue razor sitting in a small alcove under the two spouts hitting his backside. He reaches for a bar of soap sitting by itself away from the other bottles on the platform; he picks it up and brings it under his nose to take a whiff. He can smell a hint of rain and the sweet smell of freshly washed cotton linen, the soap was slimy; the words that were once written on it can no longer be read. He begins to suds up his torso; every movement he makes with the soap the more the scent of it fills the air surrounding him. His eyes catch the sight of the pink razor again; he picks it up to examine it, to determine what kind of use a woman's razor gets in this house. He looks at the shaft that holds the white pivoting head, its strong and firm but looks fairly new. He then spots the three blades with a worn blue strip underneath them, much like his and his father's razor they had at home. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of a small hair stuck between the blades, he recognizes the shape and size and immediately puts the razor back into its hiding place.

Suds begin traveling down his body now and his flaccid dick is covered in bubbles; he reaches down with his right hand to wash it, the bubbles giving way to the flesh that lay underneath it. He gives himself a slight tug; taking his other hand and pushing the remaining soap down and under his sack. Out of the corner of his eye he can make out a figure standing on the other side of the frosted glass, he can see the yellow top and blond hair through it and the steam.