Jolie
The evening grew dark, blackened by rolling clouds. The ominous presence of a lower temperature invited itself in through a window that had no right to be open, skulking through dark hallways until it found an accommodating room.
This state—Georgia—wasn’t cold. But tonight, was colder than I was used to.
The outside chill clung to the glass, warning us to shut and seal the opening if we expected to stay warm. I took the order, as everyone seeped from the kitchen.
Tonight, I’d been initiated into the family through a variety of chores. So many chores, that I felt like I’d been enrolled into a different kind of slavery.
But I was grateful.
Grateful, that I didn’t have to earn my keep by opening my legs or mouth, filling my body with the slime of a sex offender.
Doing the washing up was a small price to pay in exchange for the bed I’d been gifted, dressed in fluffy sheets, in a pretty pink color. The room, I shared with a small seven-year-old child. My new best friend. I was grateful for her more than anything. She kept me occupied, alert, able, and willing to survive. As did the growing interest in her brother.
Pushing him from my head for the dozenth time tonight, I continued with my chores. I’d already assisted with the trash, transporting a bag that was almost as big as me by dragging it through the field outside. The Heaven’s—that was their family name, the coolest one I’d ever heard—kept the trash cans at the edge of the main road, which was about a mile from the damn house. But I didn’t complain as I’d put on a green coat of Wynter’s and made my way through the daisies.
I’d returned to find another chore waiting, the broom already out.
I dusted corners of the room that housed dust particles older than me. I sang to myself as I worked, something Nessie had been blaring throughout the day. She didn’t know the words, and in truth, neither did I, but I liked the tune.
Placing the broom down, Wynter rounded the kitchen door. Her chores, much better than mine, bathing her small daughter and putting her to bed, were done for the night. I half expected her to deliver another devoir, and it almost made me want to shove the broom between my legs, aim for the window and fly out of it like a wrathful witch. But she didn’t have any more tasks, just a request.
“Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it. Dust bugs my nose. I’ve asked Ville to do it for weeks, but apparently, it isn’t a man’s job.” Her brown eyes rolled, searching her brain for her next words. “I hope you don’t mind, but seeing as it’s his birthday, Ville was wondering if you’d spend a little time with Woodrow. You and he are older; you don’t have to go to sleep as early as Nessie.”
“Tonight?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. I think a little company would be good for you both.”
“Of course.” I put a smile on my face, one that felt real. I had no idea what it was about him, but something made me want to spend time with him. Something magnetic.
Moving past Wynter, I took off my coat—her coat—and I handed it back to her. “Thank you.”
“No. . . thank you.” She accepted the duffle with another smile.
As I moved out of the room, I noticed her inspecting the material, like I could have somehow tarnished it on my short trash trip. The neon green that I didn’t immediately appreciate, would have highlighted any imperfections, should she find any. But she didn’t–the coat harbored the same condition of which I’d received it. And yet, on fast feet, she still shifted to the laundry basket.
I ignored Wynter’s quirks; I didn’t know enough about her to make comments on her behavior. And, if my dad had taught me anything, it was how weird people could be. He had quirks that would have the entire world raising their eyebrows. . . and I missed them all.
I moved towards the next room—the living room. The TV was on, the soundmuted, the screen blank on a satellite issue.
My cold feet were protected from the bare wooden steps by baggy socks, that were, at one point, white. I climbed the stairs. Each step creaking under my weight had me feeling like I’d eaten a little too much at dinner tonight.
In a way, I had. I was comfort eating. . . relying on food to weigh down my sadness.
Maybe a friend would help. Nessie’s presence and company were good distractions, taking up half of my heart, while my dad still lived in the other half. Only in my other half. . . and nowhere else.
Maybe Woodrow could steal me from him. . . from all the painful memories still fresh in my psyche.
My excitement to see him pulled me to the first door on my left. I reached for the door handle before remembering my manners. I retracted, and the bones of my knuckles tapped at the door, quiet and mindful of the sleeping child down the hall.
“Come in!” called a loud voice, not mindful, at all.
The voice wasn’t Woodrow’s. It was his father’s, who was sat swinging on a computer desk chair. A dated screensaver on the plasma screen alerted me that whatever he’d been doing there was done.
“Ah, there you are, darlin’. Thank you for coming up. He’s just changing.” Ville’s hands were down on his knees as he struggled to push his weight up from the chair. “Woodrow!” he called, his voice was loud and heavy, and it rattled the room and all of my bones.
I swallowed hard.
