Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 1 - Lucilia

I awake to the sun beating through the windows to my left, lighting up my vision like a flash grenade. Ugh, I can't see! I don't want to get up yet, you inconsiderate sun. I roll over to the right, eyeing my clock across the room, the time startling red to my unadjusted eyesight: 11:37.

I exit my blanket prison, its warmth taunting me to crawl back under and succumb to another dreamless bliss. I can't, though, because today I have to work. After allowing my toes to accustom themselves to the frozen wood, I go to the kitchen, hearing the food chant my name. Our kitchen is large, like everything else in this house, but I'm fine with its size because the cabinets are stocked full of all the food I need. I eat the cereal I make quickly, so I can prepare myself for work.

Back in my room after breakfast, I walk to my closet and grab my mandatory uniform. It consists of a t-shirt and dark jeans. Dressed with dirty blonde hair in a ponytail, I stroll to the front door, my bare feet padding across the oak. I slip on my shoes once I'm on the porch, and then I lock the front double doors.

Traversing the driveway is definitely the worst part about needing to walk everywhere. It contains so many curves and is about a mile long. Thanks, parents. I have to walk to my job and everywhere else, too. I don't mind, not really. At the beginning, it was hard for me to go the whole way to school without passing out from exhaustion or crying from fear of being out alone, though. Then, I met him and things got easier. A smile overtakes my face as the image of him comes to mind.

Shaking my thoughts away, I step through the door to the bookstore, light and warmth basking me with their presence. The bookstore is owned by a young couple, but it's run mostly by the wife. She, Mrs. Dawson, is an English major, but the most she does with it is editing. Meanwhile, Mr. Dawson is an Art major. He is constantly in their adjoining house, painting and drawing. Once, I even saw him sculpting a giant slab of clay out on his porch. I don't know what it ended up being, but it must have been good, since Mr. Dawson came strutting into the store like a peacock the next day. Both the Dawsons have brown hair; however, Mr. Dawson's is lighter. He also has a pale skin complexion, while hers is sun kissed.

While the owners have some slight eccentricities, the same cannot be said for their store. When you open the door, you're immediately greeted by one shelf facing the door; it displays all the new books. If you go down the path to the right of the shelf, an adjoining room contains a cafe and sitting area. The furniture in there are old, but refurbished, wingback chairs and short wooden tables. The dark red walls and the stone fireplace coupled with the furniture gives it a calming atmosphere. That's where I go when I take my break because I get to read and eat free food, courtesy of Mrs. Dawson.

However, if you go to the left of the first bookshelf, you're taken into the book section of the store, where all the different genres are sorted out. There's also the purchasing counter back there for anyone who wants to buy a book. That's generally where I work, but sometimes, like today, I get to work in the cafe.

When I reach the cafe counter, I see Mrs. Dawson entering through the door that connects to her house, carrying a plate of homemade cookies. I believe that she loves cooking more than English, but when I once asked her about why she didn't go to cooking school, she said that books are her passion. However, my stomach disagrees.

The smell of the cookies wafts towards me, tickling my nose and causing me to salivate. She must have seen my ravenous expression because she silently, with a smile in place, lifts the tray in offering. I grab two greedily, stuffing a whole one into my mouth. I chew and while covering my mouth at the same time, I say, "Thank you, Mrs. Dawson!"

I'm pretty sure that my words sounded nothing like a thank you, but my blissful facial expression must explain it to her. "You're welcome, hun'. You know I don't mind you eating the snacks." she replies. That's a true statement, but I'm pretty sure she just likes needing to bake more.

"I know," I choke out around the cookie. After that, she smiles, the skin around her blue eyes crinkling from the action, and restocks the cookie. While she does that, I don my "Dawson's Bookstore" apron and start serving customers.

The day goes by quickly, and at 6:00, I'm ready to leave. Right as I'm about to exit, Mrs. Dawson peers around the bookshelf at the entrance and speaks softly, "Do you want a ride home? I don't want you to have to walk when it's getting dark."

Looking over my shoulder and seeing the slowly dwindling sunlight, I agree to her proposal. Nightmarish thoughts of what occurred to me on a night similar to this one assault me, and I tremble as I climb into Mrs. Dawson's car. My palms are slick with sweat, and gooseflesh appears on my arms, but I'm neither hot nor cold. My heart palpitates with illogical fear, and the rhythm of my breathing shudders. I close my eyes and lean against the window, lengthening the breaths I take to help calm myself. You're fine, Lucilia. Nothing can hurt you right now. This chant follows me all the way home, up my stairs, into the shower, and then to my bed.

Nothing can hurt me right now.