Beauty & Desire *on hold*

2

I lay him down in our tiny one room home and wash myself in the tub since my father puked on the trip here. I scrub rigorously lathering myself with a bar of soap despising every inch of this night. I get out of my tub and wrap myself up in my robes and peek back into the room seeing my father passed out on the cabriole sofa. I walk over to my bed and light a candle to reread the book I attempted before I was called to the sheriff's home. I am incredibly grateful he has never detained my father. I know the only reason he does it is because he hopes that I will one day marry him.

Unfortunately for him, I find him completely repulsive. He is proud and entitled and an oaf. I could never begin to imagine willingly becoming his wife. I stare down at my page realizing I have been repetitiously reading the same page over and over. I give up and blow out my candle turning on my side. It was a chilly night, but my father seemed to take the only two blankets we owned in the house. I curl up into my body and count my breaths to ignore the goosebumps crawling up and down my skin until I drift to sleep.

***

I wake up to the sun blazing in streaks into our tiny room. I grab my cloak and basket, bypassing my snoring father as I walk down the cobblestone street in our village. I wander over to Edmund's food stand.

"Good morning Edmund," I cheerily murmur.

"Ah! My beautiful Claire! Your favorite, nice and fresh!" He tells me handing me a bright green apple.  I kiss him on the cheek and he smiles back in earnest offering me a wink. Chewing on my apple I make my way to Lawrence Reker's low-end publishing house. Lawrence is one of the few people who overlooks my sex and offers me some money to stitch books for him. Sometimes he throws me a bag of wheat instead when he is low on funds like he does today.

"This is all I got today," he tells me sullenly.

I offer a feeble smile trying to appear gracious, "Thank you, Mr. Reker," I respond and throw the sack over my shoulder. Unfortunately, a bag of wheat does not do much good when I trying to pay off my father's mountains of debt. But I take it with little options of any other means of getting money.

"Good-bye, see you next day!"

"Cheerio!" He replies.

I try to trade my pillage to a local alehouse for some pennies. They short-change like normal offering a scanty pence and half which only provides me just enough to buy a few small potatoes for dinner.

Arriving back home, my father already remade his mess of glass bottles and clothes strewn about. He lays down on the couch as I roast the potatoes on the fire and throw in leftover green peas, the common meal for most days for us. When I place our two settings down he sits across from me and we begin to eat in silence chewing our flavorless meal. I do not want to speak with him or even look at him borderline angry at his behavior of acting like a child and me the adult. I know it is anyday now that our neighbors could come break down our door looking for money we don't have because he gambled it away and he is too inebriated all the time to even care. I somehow maneuver enough each month to pay off the remaining title deed to the Lord of our manor and then scavenge little remains of money for food. Today we both get two potatoes tonight which is a luxury to be immensely thankful for.

"Claire would you mind giving me your spare potato, I am quite famished from the assault I received last night," he mutters staring down my plate with greed shining in his eyes.

I want to retort back to him it was his own damn fault but I bite my tongue and pick up my potato slamming it down roughly on his plate. He shifts back from my abruptness.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed and you wonder why I have to go out every night to lessen my troubles," he says begrudgingly and then shovels down my potato and reaches for a bottle of rum he keeps on the chair.

I can no longer keep my mouth shut. "You traversing at night is the source of your troubles! Actually no, not just yours but mine too father," I say in disgrace.

"You have no right to speak to me that way Claire. I am your father and the man of this home, I provide for you."

"Oh really! How have we been eating these past months, that was me," I retort disgruntled.

He pushes back his chair and looks down at me. "You may look just like your mother, but you are nothing like her," he says in disgust and I flinch from the insult. "I am going to the alehouse. I will probably spend the night," he informs me turning away,

I surge up seething in anger. "You cannot go back there and gamble away more money we don't have. How many times do you think the Sheriff will fend off those you are indebted to? Not much longer!" I shout at him.

"You just see! I am going to win back every shilling and then I will be laughing at you," he exclaims.

"How will you even get in the alehouse with no money?" I ask now concerned that he will place even more risky bets.

"I will trade whisky to get in," he states and then stomps out slamming the door. The candle splinters out from the force, the entire house still rattling in echo. I exhale loudly and then drag myself to relight another match enlightening the room once more. I turn around falling back into the couch. I will never understand why my father tests his luck at such. I do not want him to get hurt, but I do not know how to get through to him. I stand back up to silently putting away our dishes as my stomach grumbles.

*fun history fact*
Whisky was used as currency during the late 1700's