02-15-2008, 11:25 AM
“Dearie,” piped up the mirror. “Don’t forget to add a bit more face paint to your eye. It’s not quite healed from the other day.” Fran leaned into the mirror, a small bottle of face paint that she’d taken from her mom’s room clutched in her hand. Two dabs under her right eye, softly though, it still stung even if it had been over a week since she was punched. “Bravo dearie, that looks great. You just seem a little tired.” The mirror gleamed in the light of the room.
“FRAN!” A hysterical unearthly highed-pitched voice reverberated through the wall.
“Uh Oh”
“Oh Dear”
“…hm…”
“Yes mom?” Fran hid the small pot of face paint back between her mattress and her bed frame.
“He’s here! He’s here! He’s here…” The last breathless utterance seemed to come as she was running down the stairs.
“Well….” Fran attempted to flatten her unruly mousey hair, but even licking her palms several times didn’t help. “guess I should go.”
“Good luck”
“Mind your manners”
“Don’t speak without thinking first.”
Closing the door behind her, Fran headed across the living room down the stairs. Six steps and a flight, six steps and she was in the back storeroom. In the middle of the piles of flour, sugar, and yeast she watched as her mother was in the arms of a tall gentlemen. His clothes were ragged; his smell lingered in her nostrils from across the room, the stench or body order, sweat and the tang of metal. His face was either very tanned or very dirty, his clothes were stained and filthy and…rotted. All the hair that should’ve been on his head was stuck to his face, unruly, dread locked and what she suspected was old food was also there. When she took a timid step closer, the floorboard creaked alerting them of her presence.
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