All the Wicked Things

Chapter 2

I rolled over to find the sun blazing down on me. My room was so high up that the trees offered no assistance in keeping the sunlight out. I groaned as I looked at my phone. 7:00 AM. It was Saturday, for heaven's sake. Why in the world couldn't my brain rest and actually let me sleep in?

Reluctantly, I pulled the covers back and sat up on the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was cold underneath my bare feet so I tiptoed into the bathroom and hopped onto the rug. It took approximately two minutes and forty-five seconds for the water to travel from the hot water heater on the first floor to my shower on the third. Even then, it was only lukewarm for most of the time, unless, of course, someone flushed a toilet. The perk of living in an antiquity that was better suited as a museum than a humble abode. But I'd learned the routine so I stood by patiently, eyeing the ingredients on the back of my shampoo bottle as I waited for the water to warm.

It was lackluster at best, but I closed my eyes as the water dripped over my head and down my body. I took the time to shave, though, I wasn't quite sure why. No one important would be seeing or touching me. I let out a bothered sigh at that revelation, but continued my task until hot water came shooting out of the faucet.

"Agh!" I yelled as the searing water hit my flesh.

I yanked the cold water knob as quickly as I could and finished rinsing off the soap before turning the shower off all together. I mumbled under my breath as I grabbed a towel, muttering unmentionables and cursing at the wretched plumbing in this wretched house that belonged to this wretched town.

I angrily towel-dried my hair, still reeling from my unsatisfying shower, and fixed it into a loose braid, glancing in the mirror to make sure I didn't look like a complete buffoon. The clothes I had picked for this occasion were an old pair of military-style cargo pants, a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and a pair of hand-me-down work boots from my mom. I looked like a vagabond, but it would do.

Running down the stairs, I heard a commotion in the kitchen. I had planned to bypass Aunt Meredith all together, but she peaked her head out as soon as she heard the tell-tale squeak of the third to last step in the stairs.

"I'm making breakfast, if you're hungry?" she said, her offer filled with hope.

The smell of waffles and bacon and syrup filled my nose. As much as I appreciated her spoiling me, I still wasn't in the mood for human interaction so I looked at my phone and said, "I'm gonna be late." She knew it was a lie, but I shrugged my shoulders and offered, "I'll be back before dark."

"But where are you—," she called out, but her words were muffled as I slammed the front door behind me.

Most teens my age had their own car, at least the ones from the areas I was used to living in, and Blackstone was no different. I had my driver's license but asking Aunt Meredith to borrow her shiny, new Audi would come with a plethora of questions that I didn't want to answer so I grabbed the bike off the porch and peddled up Winter street then turned north onto Blackstone.

When I arrived there was only one car in the parking lot so I knew I was in the right place. It was a place where things went to die; a solemn, rundown shack where broken spirits were thrown out like the discarded trash they were considered to be, and all but forgotten by the rest of the world. Most people avoided places like this as the parking lot attested to, but as I walked towards the door, my mother's words whispered in my ear. Everyone has a story to tell, Abby. We're all just looking for someone to listen. Be that person for the world.