THE DOZEN

THE LEECHES.

"How did yesterday go?"

She shrugged. "It was fine. I didn't die, but probably because I just kept running away from everything that moved. That's my plan for today."

"Sounds very intricate," he commented, earning a small smile from the girl sitting in front of the couch.

Her warm gaze drifted to the dried dishcloth limply lying atop his forehead, and she hurried to grab it as she stood to her feet. "I'll go rewet this. After that, I'll probably get ready to go. You're sure that you're fine with being here by yourself?"

"Yeah," he answered dryly. "I'll probably be safer than when Lucas was here."

She neither disagreed nor agreed and simply exited the room, hoping he would think that she simply didn't register what he said and forgot to reply. Yet, she heard him perfectly. When she was dipping the dishcloth into the sink full of water (or melted snow,) it was the only thing ringing through her head.

She didn't want to admit to herself that Lucas Mitchell, Subject 30673, was a man malicious beyond her comprehension. The concept of someone so wicked and detached just wasn't tangible. Her mind virtually bickered with itself, opposing views clashing against one another.

Again, she sighed heavily.

Again, the thoughts failed to depart.

∘∘∘

"I'M SICK AND tired of you always being at work!"

The babysitter shifted in her seat, clearing her dry throat to try to somehow muffle the sharp shouts resonating within the house. The little girl lying in the bed before her stared blankly at the ceiling, small hands folded across her starry comforter, and seemed entirely unaffected by the arguing. Or maybe entirely affected, which is why she couldn't bring herself to say anything- the young caretaker couldn't decide.

"Don't yell! It's late, you know Clara has church tomorrow."

"Who made you this blanket?" the caretaker forced herself to ask, tapping a nervous finger on the navy blue quilt, adorned with blurry attempts at a constellation. "It's pretty. I like the stars."

"My grandma," the young girl answered shortly. "She died."

The caretaker's face abruptly fell. The child's pessimism was unprecedented, but with the vicious barks of hatred poisoning the walls she called home, the babysitter wasn't too surprised. "I'm sorry to hear that, Clara," she replied softly, giving the girl's hands a small squeeze.

"What would you know about Clara? You're never even here to be her dad!"

The babysitter leaned back in her chair as the young girl merely shrugged in response. "I brought a poem," the older girl lightly suggested in some attempt to alleviate the tension seeping into the bedroom, "you wanna hear it?"

"I guess," murmured Clara, indifferently. For such a young age, the caretaker noted, she was quite apathetic to what befell her at home. Like she'd already figured out a solution to the pain it should've been bringing, discovered a way to defend herself from it all. It was admirable, yet saddening at the same time.

"You don't have the right to say I'm not a parent. At least I can sit down and actually have a conversation with her without belittling her!"

"Okay," the babysitter smiled, reaching to her back pocket to retrieve the folded piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully, for no other reason than to pass time. The distant shouting placed her on a cliff's edge, teetering between providing consolation and sparing herself the trouble. In that moment, she managed to attempt comfort. When she would fall off the edge and choose to flee, she wasn't sure.