Whisper

[One]

The long line of customers at the towns’ local antique shop was getting longer as the moments dragged on. The grunts, and groans of annoyance were becoming louder, and more frequent, hoping that maybe, whoever was at the front of the line, would get the hint, and hurry up. 

It was pointless, though. The person holding up the line was none other than my mother, Jennifer Mason. She, and Richard my father, owned almost the entire town, and she didn’t move for anyone.

Pretty much the whole town hated her, and my family, except for me of course. She didn’t let that bother her, though. If anything, it gave her an increased sense of power over everyone.

“I don’t care, Mr. Simmons, I requested that those dolls be delivered to my home on Saturday morning, and I expect them to be delivered then.” The serious tone in her voice was never usually challenged by anyone.

Mr. Simmons must be feeling extra brave today, because he spoke up. “Mrs. Mason, my delivery boys don’t work on weekends, I’m the only one in the store on Saturdays.”

As the two continues to argue, I made my way to the back of the store. I truly despised it when she argued with people. It embarrassed me to no end, and I actually like the people of this town. Unlike my family, who only stuck to their close circle of friends, and were completely horrid to everyone else.

Instead of standing there while she argues, I always walked away, wandering around whatever store, or home we were in. My mother was a regular at the antique store, so I knew it like the back of my hand.

If it wasn’t too expensive, Mr. Simmons would always give me something that I liked from the store, for free.

I walked past the box full of dolls sitting at the end of the counter, the cause for today’s first argument. In my opinion, they were incredibly creepy, and not at all worth it.

I collected dolls myself, from a young age, but I liked the Barbie looking ones, not the old creepy ones that my mother and younger sister liked. My mother had collected dolls when she was younger and now I have them.

As I walked along the shelves, let my fingers glide over the smooth surfaces of the old, fragile vases, leaving a trail of cold tingles on the tips of my long fingers.

Mr. Simmons might be old, but he definitely took pride in his store. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the place, and everything was made all the more beautiful just by the way that he arranged it.

My destination soon approached, I grinned at the sight of the discolouring pages of the books that covered the entire back wall of the store. My family was over rich, and could afford to buy me an entire store full of brand new books, but I much prefer the old, used ones.

I was intrigued by the possible stories that came with them; the small characteristics of the books, revealing small snippets of the person’s life who had owned the books previously.

The coffee stains, revealing that the previous owner probably enjoyed sitting down, and relaxing with a steaming cup of coffee while they read, curled up on a soft arm chair; the remnants of small, salty tears, dripping on to the pages after making their trail down the flushed cheeks of the reader, showing that they were an emotional person, and allowed themselves to get lost in the world of the books.

What I love most about the old books, though, is the smell. It might sound strange, but it reminded me of my mother, my birth mother, not Jennifer.

You see, my name used to be Lily Hansen, before it was changed to Mason. My parents, and my twin brother, were killed in a car accident. They were on their way to my dance performance, when the breaks in the car failed, which I found really strange. On that same day, the car had been serviced. Everything should have been fine with the car.