Three Little Words
LJ Idol, Week Two
Alicia stared with dread at her bedroom ceiling, ignoring the dappled sunlight and cheerful bird song from outside. Moments before, she had been luxuriating in the promise of a perfect Saturday morning, planning nothing more energetic than a make-believe journey abroad. The book she'd been reading, a travel guide to Italy, had slipped from her hands the instant she started hearing telltale noises from the other room.
Were those footsteps? Someone walking, with slow deliberation, across her living room floor?
Silence. Had she only imagined it? Perhaps, if she remained perfectly still, her tranquil morning would return.
She was being ridiculous. There was no intruder, no shadowy figure poised to spring out at her the minute she ventured from her bedroom. It was a ghost, the creation of a guilty subconscious which didn't think she deserved a lazy morning in bed.
The crash from her kitchen, when it came, was so shockingly loud that she almost screamed in terror.
It wasn't fair! She had done what was required, and then some. How could anyone look at what she had sacrificed over the past seventy years, the broken promises, the smashed dreams, and still demand more?
Anger flashed through her, and she flung off the warm cocoon of her bed covers. Comfortable in her solitude, she hadn't worn anything to bed, but there was a bathrobe thrown over the reading chair nearby. Yanking it on, she pushed through the half open door into the room beyond.
Her living room wasn't large; barely enough room for a television and bookcase along one wall, with a sofa and small recliner facing it. Behind the sofa was the pass-through to the kitchen, another small room with a medium sized refrigerator, stove with oven underneath, and sink. The intruder, not menacing at all from this distance, stood in front of the cramped counter to one side of the sink, and appeared to be clumsily pouring cereal from one of her bowls back into its box.
"Pick the wrong flavor?" she said from behind him.
Her fear had been burned away, leaving only a cold and unsatisfying anger behind. Her Saturday morning thief was barely more than a kid, nineteen at the most, clothed in nothing but jockey shorts and a ripped t-shirt, with a scraggly brown ponytail draped seductively over one shoulder.
"Nah," he responded, not seeming the least bit startled or taken aback, "you're out of milk."
"How awful for you," she snarled. "Care to explain what you're doing in my kitchen?"
Abandoning his failed attempt at cereal replacement, the man-child turned to her pantry, opened the door, and began rummaging inside.
"Hey, no need to freak, Babe. Corynne told me you were a little tightly wound, but I promise I'm not here long-term, kay?"
Resisting the urge to jerk his ponytail out by the roots, Alicia licked her lips, and asked, "Corynne?"
"Yeah, Corynne," he said impatiently, glancing over his shoulder at her for the first time, "your sister! The one who rocked my world last night."
The shock on his face was pleasant to see, his casual arrogance ripped away in less than half a second, but it did nothing to slow her pounding heart.
No, Lady Adrestia, please! I can't. Not again, please!
"Tiffany?"
His voice, barely a whisper, was choked. A child in truth now.
The tiny living room was slowly revolving around Alicia, bile rising in her throat. The urge to scream was almost irresistible. If she did that, if she trumpeted her rage and desperation at this child like a banshee of old, would he run far enough and long enough for her to escape?
"But, it can't...... You can't......"
He was frantically trying to understand. What he was seeing had to make sense, because everything in his world always had before.
No, of course she couldn't escape, no more than he could.
"You've been had, Romeo," she said cruelly, and then ruined the line's delivery by tripping over her feet, and almost falling flat on her face. Grabbing the back of the recliner, she pulled herself around to its front, and flopped into the seat.
"You're not Tiffany," he said, certainty building with every word. "Fuck, you look exactly like her though."
Alicia was still dizzy, but thankfully the living room had stopped revolving around her. She knew her monster now, could see it looming in front of her, as terrifying and overwhelming as she had feared from underneath her bed covers. Not this boy of course, but the prison she had to live inside while he learned to be a man.
Yes, lady, I felt your warning, and will obey.
"That's the punishment," she said wearily, "every time you look at me, you will see a reminder of your past mistake."
"Dude," he said, a touch of fear in his voice, "I'm fuckin' outa here."
"The lady I serve is called Adrestia," Alicia continued, ignoring his outburst, "and she has bound us together until you have learned remorse for your actions."
Not completely accurate of course, but as close to the truth as the boy was likely to comprehend at this point. The lady would release him eventually, that was true enough, but not until he had suffered through what felt like eternities of grief first. Only after years of torment, after dragging both of them through a myriad of connecting circumstances designed to twist the knife of his past immorality deeper and deeper into his belly, would she finally relent and let him go.
How desperately young Tiffany must've prayed for vengeance. Had she built an alter, lit candles, sworn oaths, and shed her own blood and that of others to prove her faith? Surely she must have done all those things and more to arouse the ancient lady's ire.
He was behind her then, hands gripping the back of the chair as though he were contemplating some type of violence. The moment hung while Alicia sat in the chair unmoving, and then he was gone. His Feet sped over her apartment's shabbily carpeted floor, his torn t-shirt flapping above his bare knees, both hands scrambling at the door knob, and then he was through and out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Alicia sat.
He returned an hour later, breathless and wild around the eyes. His shirt was gone, and the long scratches on his back oozed blood. His left arm flopped uselessly at his side, and she guessed that it had been mauled and broken in several places. Whimpering, he crawled towards her across the threadbare carpet he had flown across earlier.
When he arrived at her feet, he simply stopped for a moment, panting from both exhaustion and terror. Finally, his eyes tracked up and met hers.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
Author's Note:
This week's food inspiration comes from my youngest daughter, Amanda. I walked into the kitchen, saw her filling a bowl with cereal, and asked, "Hey, I thought we were out of milk?"
"Oh?" she said, looked inside the fridge, and then re-emptied her cereal bowl back into the box.
Fun times.
Dan
Alicia stared with dread at her bedroom ceiling, ignoring the dappled sunlight and cheerful bird song from outside. Moments before, she had been luxuriating in the promise of a perfect Saturday morning, planning nothing more energetic than a make-believe journey abroad. The book she'd been reading, a travel guide to Italy, had slipped from her hands the instant she started hearing telltale noises from the other room.
Were those footsteps? Someone walking, with slow deliberation, across her living room floor?
Silence. Had she only imagined it? Perhaps, if she remained perfectly still, her tranquil morning would return.
She was being ridiculous. There was no intruder, no shadowy figure poised to spring out at her the minute she ventured from her bedroom. It was a ghost, the creation of a guilty subconscious which didn't think she deserved a lazy morning in bed.
The crash from her kitchen, when it came, was so shockingly loud that she almost screamed in terror.
It wasn't fair! She had done what was required, and then some. How could anyone look at what she had sacrificed over the past seventy years, the broken promises, the smashed dreams, and still demand more?
Anger flashed through her, and she flung off the warm cocoon of her bed covers. Comfortable in her solitude, she hadn't worn anything to bed, but there was a bathrobe thrown over the reading chair nearby. Yanking it on, she pushed through the half open door into the room beyond.
Her living room wasn't large; barely enough room for a television and bookcase along one wall, with a sofa and small recliner facing it. Behind the sofa was the pass-through to the kitchen, another small room with a medium sized refrigerator, stove with oven underneath, and sink. The intruder, not menacing at all from this distance, stood in front of the cramped counter to one side of the sink, and appeared to be clumsily pouring cereal from one of her bowls back into its box.
"Pick the wrong flavor?" she said from behind him.
Her fear had been burned away, leaving only a cold and unsatisfying anger behind. Her Saturday morning thief was barely more than a kid, nineteen at the most, clothed in nothing but jockey shorts and a ripped t-shirt, with a scraggly brown ponytail draped seductively over one shoulder.
"Nah," he responded, not seeming the least bit startled or taken aback, "you're out of milk."
"How awful for you," she snarled. "Care to explain what you're doing in my kitchen?"
Abandoning his failed attempt at cereal replacement, the man-child turned to her pantry, opened the door, and began rummaging inside.
"Hey, no need to freak, Babe. Corynne told me you were a little tightly wound, but I promise I'm not here long-term, kay?"
Resisting the urge to jerk his ponytail out by the roots, Alicia licked her lips, and asked, "Corynne?"
"Yeah, Corynne," he said impatiently, glancing over his shoulder at her for the first time, "your sister! The one who rocked my world last night."
The shock on his face was pleasant to see, his casual arrogance ripped away in less than half a second, but it did nothing to slow her pounding heart.
No, Lady Adrestia, please! I can't. Not again, please!
"Tiffany?"
His voice, barely a whisper, was choked. A child in truth now.
The tiny living room was slowly revolving around Alicia, bile rising in her throat. The urge to scream was almost irresistible. If she did that, if she trumpeted her rage and desperation at this child like a banshee of old, would he run far enough and long enough for her to escape?
"But, it can't...... You can't......"
He was frantically trying to understand. What he was seeing had to make sense, because everything in his world always had before.
No, of course she couldn't escape, no more than he could.
"You've been had, Romeo," she said cruelly, and then ruined the line's delivery by tripping over her feet, and almost falling flat on her face. Grabbing the back of the recliner, she pulled herself around to its front, and flopped into the seat.
"You're not Tiffany," he said, certainty building with every word. "Fuck, you look exactly like her though."
Alicia was still dizzy, but thankfully the living room had stopped revolving around her. She knew her monster now, could see it looming in front of her, as terrifying and overwhelming as she had feared from underneath her bed covers. Not this boy of course, but the prison she had to live inside while he learned to be a man.
Yes, lady, I felt your warning, and will obey.
"That's the punishment," she said wearily, "every time you look at me, you will see a reminder of your past mistake."
"Dude," he said, a touch of fear in his voice, "I'm fuckin' outa here."
"The lady I serve is called Adrestia," Alicia continued, ignoring his outburst, "and she has bound us together until you have learned remorse for your actions."
Not completely accurate of course, but as close to the truth as the boy was likely to comprehend at this point. The lady would release him eventually, that was true enough, but not until he had suffered through what felt like eternities of grief first. Only after years of torment, after dragging both of them through a myriad of connecting circumstances designed to twist the knife of his past immorality deeper and deeper into his belly, would she finally relent and let him go.
How desperately young Tiffany must've prayed for vengeance. Had she built an alter, lit candles, sworn oaths, and shed her own blood and that of others to prove her faith? Surely she must have done all those things and more to arouse the ancient lady's ire.
He was behind her then, hands gripping the back of the chair as though he were contemplating some type of violence. The moment hung while Alicia sat in the chair unmoving, and then he was gone. His Feet sped over her apartment's shabbily carpeted floor, his torn t-shirt flapping above his bare knees, both hands scrambling at the door knob, and then he was through and out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Alicia sat.
He returned an hour later, breathless and wild around the eyes. His shirt was gone, and the long scratches on his back oozed blood. His left arm flopped uselessly at his side, and she guessed that it had been mauled and broken in several places. Whimpering, he crawled towards her across the threadbare carpet he had flown across earlier.
When he arrived at her feet, he simply stopped for a moment, panting from both exhaustion and terror. Finally, his eyes tracked up and met hers.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
Author's Note:
This week's food inspiration comes from my youngest daughter, Amanda. I walked into the kitchen, saw her filling a bowl with cereal, and asked, "Hey, I thought we were out of milk?"
"Oh?" she said, looked inside the fridge, and then re-emptied her cereal bowl back into the box.
Fun times.
Dan