𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 ━ max mayfield

3│SHE WORKS HARD FOR THE MONEY

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❛ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ sʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ʜᴀʀᴅ
ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ꒱


❝ SO YOU BETTER
TREAT HER RIGHT ❞

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Mrs. Johnson was an elderly, white-haired woman who lived in one of the large houses on Loch Nora. Her lawn was always clipped to perfection and every plant had its proper place. The inside of her home was just as neat; she had no children and her husband had died several years ago. She didn't even own any pets as their dandruff-filled fur was one of the many things that she looked down on.

Jessie didn't particularly like her (she didn't really like anyone, if she was being honest) but, when the woman remembered to pay her, she paid well. It was the only steady job she'd had in awhile as she usually went over on Saturdays to clean the almost-spotless home. It was almost worth listening to the woman drone on about her (usually bigoted) opinions and even the insults she sent the teen's way.

At promptly nine a.m., Jessie rang the doorbell. It took several minutes for her employer to get to the door since she moved slowly— her joints were another one of her usual complaints. It was almost three minutes later that the door opened to reveal the woman's (unfortunately) familiar, wrinkled face.

She had watery, blue eyes that were extremely near-sighted. She often wore her glasses around her neck on a beaded chain but she forgot about them more often than she used them. After a moment, she recognized the girl. "You're late, again. I'll have to dock your pay."

The brunette swallowed back the retort she would've given had this been Mike— or someone who wasn't her only source of income. Instead, she gave the woman a curt nod and entered the home. What Mrs. Johnson had said was factually incorrect: Jessie had, actually, arrived on time. Unfortunately, her employer counted the three slow minutes to open the door against her. There was no point in arguing the matter, though, since after the first few times, she'd learned the hard way not to do so.

Thankfully, the woman left her alone as she cleaned the upper floors and let her listen to her portable radio. It was only when she got to the first floor— where Mrs. Johnson spent most of her time— that she became agitated.

Since she lived alone, the older woman took advantage of Jessie's "listening ear" and used the time to ramble about all of her thoughts. The teen did her best to ignore them since they were usually all negative; anything from how the country was being run to personal attacks against immigrants and even her Jewish culture.

"You should consider converting, dear" was one of Mrs. Johnson's favorite conversation starters, "Jews are unwelcome in any town— they always get the blame. Why not convert to Christianity? You'll save yourself a lot of trouble down the line. . ." She would continue to spout the religious propaganda her church probably fed her while the brunette refrained from pointing out that Judaism was older than her precious Christianity. This, at least, was easier to listen to than her preaching about why Jessie should like men instead of women.

Today, she made an effort to cut off the lecture before it started by placing her radio on the kitchen counter while it continued to play. A woman's voice was currently reporting Indiana's weather as she started scrubbing the granite surface.

Growing tired of the unappealing information, she paused to switch the channel. Almost immediately, the story caught her attention: "' . .occurred here is sure to touch a nerve across the community of Hawkins which is still reeling from last year's devastating mall fire. Over thirty innocent lives were lost that day. Right now, the road is completely blocked off. . .'" Her radio went static and Jessie let out a grunt of annoyance.