Our Struggle

P is for Possibilities

It has been a few days. A few days of hard, hard, work.

Both mental and physical work.

Mentally because every time I shut my freaking eyes all I saw was either Noah or my father.

Physically because Asher had given me every possible job he could think of. I actually worked. Hard. 5am until 6pm. Cleaning homes, offices, car parks, public bathrooms...

The last one was absolutely disgusting and I vomited three times. It really went like this: clean, gag, clean, gag, clean, someone came in, vomit.

The worst thing was that I was doing all of this for free.

For free.

Queue the tears.

Right now, I was stood in Noah's (our) garden shed - covered in blood, sweat and tears. Blood from the wooden planks, which I had to tear into because there was a mould infestation, sweat from actually having to lift things more than my own weight and tears from all the chemicals.

My ankle had also healed somewhat - it still ached at the end of each day. Ice helped.

So did Asher's bed.

The shed, which was more like a mini hut, was finally spotless. It felt good to see the results of my labour - I had worked on this thing for two days, at least ten hours each one.

I was sure Asher had hatched a scheme to get me to do as many jobs as possible in the least amount of time, all without having to actually pay me anything.

On that note, I still hadn't secured a job. I went round to the few remaining shops, the ones that had still survived the pandemic economic crisis, they took one look at my Prada coat and chucked me out, only after asking me about if I had done 'it' (it meaning murdered my father); I tried two sketchy bars, one of which had a manager who sported two gold teeth and wanted me to flash 'my own'; I tried the tattered library but they only had voluntary positions, key word being voluntary.

I did get one proposition - a homeless man, one outside of that run down bar on the street upon which gum and cigarettes had rain down upon, offered to pay me ten pounds to sit next to him and watch him.

Watch him do what, I'll never know. And I never want to know.

It doesn't make it any easier the fact that this part of town is so freaking small. Businesses are struggling, no one wants to hire, and if they do, they take one look at me and call me a murderer, or a rich brat.

Anyways, the old, dusty shed, which used to be speckled with huge cobwebs and had dust that was at least two inches thick, was practically gleaming.

Asher said I couldn't do it. He said I wouldn't be able to persevere with such a task.

But I did it.

It took me at least four attempts, and I didn't know what exactly to do, and I've probably messed a lot of things up.

But I did it.

Not to mention the amount of spiders I saw. The amount of big spiders. The type that jump and have furry legs, even ones with invisible legs. I could have sworn there was a dinnerplate spider there. People listening nearby probably thought there was a massacre happening.

I had scrubbed the windows so that they reflected the delicate evening sun. A warm, glowy light flooded the spacious room (spacious due to my hard work). I had tried to tidy up the clutter, neatly stacking the boxes and dusting the shelves and scrubbing the floor.