Chapter Sixteen
"Edie."
"Mother."
"Don't you have anything to say?"
Oh, I have lots to say. 8734 words, to be precise - I've had this speech prepared for years. However, now is not the time. I/We need somewhere to stay and as I/We have no-where else to go, it would be best if I keep my script to myself for the time being. So, I simply stare at the floor and say nothing, while mother huffs and puffs around the room, plumping the pillows roughly, in the manner in which one would beat a dusty rug that one was not particularly fond of. She finally sighs down into her armchair, stained with wine and god-knows-what-else, arranging herself so she can glare at me more comfortably. I don't want to sit down, or look up, or move from my spot on the carpet, but I don't want to stand here under scrutiny either. I can feel her gaze burning into my skin, from top to toe as she looks me up and down, takes in the sight of her only child, the prodigal daughter who has at last returned. Mother reaches into the cabinet by her side, eyes still focused in front of her, and I hear the familiar key in the lock, and the chink of glass. Three steps to the door without looking back; I didn't come here to watch this again.
I press my ear to each of the doors in turn, and push open the second, the one i hear movement behind. Thankfully, he's in no compromising position, just pacing back and forth across the room, five steps to the left by the window, five steps to the right by the door. He doesn't stop when I wander in and lie across the bed, my back against the headboard and my hands behind my head. I watch him for forty seconds, back and forth, over and over, until I turn my head to the window. The sun's almost behind the horizon, and the time has come to get out of this place. I suddenly have an idea, it appears like a lightbulb above my head and I start quietly cackling to myself. Before he can ask what's going on, I hop off the bed and crack open the wardrobe, hoping everything I want is still in here. I throw a couple of garish paisley dresses and chicken fillets onto the bed, followed by a box of make-up. He looks at me, his face a question mark.
"Get your kit on," I say. "We're going out."
"Mother."
"Don't you have anything to say?"
Oh, I have lots to say. 8734 words, to be precise - I've had this speech prepared for years. However, now is not the time. I/We need somewhere to stay and as I/We have no-where else to go, it would be best if I keep my script to myself for the time being. So, I simply stare at the floor and say nothing, while mother huffs and puffs around the room, plumping the pillows roughly, in the manner in which one would beat a dusty rug that one was not particularly fond of. She finally sighs down into her armchair, stained with wine and god-knows-what-else, arranging herself so she can glare at me more comfortably. I don't want to sit down, or look up, or move from my spot on the carpet, but I don't want to stand here under scrutiny either. I can feel her gaze burning into my skin, from top to toe as she looks me up and down, takes in the sight of her only child, the prodigal daughter who has at last returned. Mother reaches into the cabinet by her side, eyes still focused in front of her, and I hear the familiar key in the lock, and the chink of glass. Three steps to the door without looking back; I didn't come here to watch this again.
I press my ear to each of the doors in turn, and push open the second, the one i hear movement behind. Thankfully, he's in no compromising position, just pacing back and forth across the room, five steps to the left by the window, five steps to the right by the door. He doesn't stop when I wander in and lie across the bed, my back against the headboard and my hands behind my head. I watch him for forty seconds, back and forth, over and over, until I turn my head to the window. The sun's almost behind the horizon, and the time has come to get out of this place. I suddenly have an idea, it appears like a lightbulb above my head and I start quietly cackling to myself. Before he can ask what's going on, I hop off the bed and crack open the wardrobe, hoping everything I want is still in here. I throw a couple of garish paisley dresses and chicken fillets onto the bed, followed by a box of make-up. He looks at me, his face a question mark.
"Get your kit on," I say. "We're going out."
posted by Gutterflower at 7:54 PM
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