Asa is an unwilling sensitive with a fear of mirrors and anything reflective.
Amy is an unwitting empath.
Together they are responsible for murder.
THE SHIPPY SIBLINGS are rarely alone, despite living as secluded orphans on the remains of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I CLAIMED THE BACK seat of Cindy's ferocious red Thunderbird, intent on avoiding all interaction for our fifteen-minute trip. But, as usual, my plans were chaff, crumbling to specks and blowing out the slivered car window to drag miles behind the bumper. Asa tried to distract Cindy, blanketing the car with cotton-thin words, but she was above it. Her unblinking stare pegged me at traffic lights and stop signs, glancing sharply off the rearview mirror, perforating the intermittent, mizzling conversation. I tucked further into my seat until her stern gaze drilled holes in the upholstery above my right shoulder instead.
Outside, the world whirred passed in streaks of saddle-brown laced blue; inside, the car was a funeral pyre. The scent of stale flowers tickled my nose. Brittle tissues lay in balls at my feet, smudged with bright lipsticks and beige makeup crust. Emotional decay clung to the carpet and roof liner, collapsing my chest like stacked bricks. All the while, Asa's peak perspective on the A-Team as a metropolitan Mad Max turned my brain to candle wax.
A standard, cement DPW building loomed into view, and my stomach softened, my muscles relaxing at the prospect of freedom. But the relief was oddly flaccid. The limp weight dropped from my breast to my toes, letting me breathe while remaining on my person like a pebble in my shoe. The impermanence of the feeling stuck with me. Relief wouldn't last. This car ride was over, but something equally as aggravating would be along without fail to take its place.
Our final destination was a smaller, cinderblock structure hidden behind the Department of Public Works: the home of Sterling Hill Animal Control. A large chain link dog run grew on one exterior wall like a tumor, and a sign above the single push/pull door was missing as many letters as employees. (St-rling -ill Animal C-n-rol.) Parked under a lone carport cradled by brush, a 1977 Dodge Tradesman awaited our arrival. The car slowed. I cranked on the door handle and escaped before the tires stopped rolling. Asa called, "It's open. The keys are in the glove box," as I went, and I let him take charge of Cindy, pausing at a safe distance to watch the quick farewell hug that passed between them.
Bitterness settled on my tongue, and I yanked on the van's stiff passenger door. The interior was warm and musky.
" ... Don't let it be another six months before we see each other again..."
Cindy's words carried to me via her raised voice. I jammed the key from the console (Wiseman was too lazy to hide them any better) into the ignition and turned the engine over with a roar.
Asa threw me a nervous glance. I flipped him off, double-fisting two middle fingers behind the dusty windshield. His hands pushed into the pockets of his blue jeans, and he waited, a good little nephew, for Cindy to make the main street. Then she was gone.
Good riddance.
"Smells like kiss ass in here," I said, emphasizing the word 'ass' ashe climbed into the van's driver seat. The fabric was coffee-stained and torn on the edges.
