Seven Deadly Sins

/|:Part 1:|\

Kat opened her tired eyes as the car crossed violently over a bump, startling awake the cat on her lap. Her dad, sitting in the driver's seat, chuckled, steering the car into the driveway.

"Well guys, here we are! Our new home."

Kat looked at her new house and immediately hated it. It hadn't been well-kept, and moss had collected underneath the awning. Bits of paint and some rotting wood peeled away from the rest of the house like leprosy and the windows were, if not completely missing, then cracked or smashed in. The door seemed to be the only thing holding up relatively strong. It was a smooth, dark wood, with flowering, leafy handles and a glass center, held in place by curling metal wires passing through. It looked tall and elegant, as opposed to the old and slouching rest of the house.

The house itself stood in a huge row with other similar houses, each a ways off from the next, though those were in much better condition, most probably because they were actually inhabited and not abandoned for the past God-knows-how-many-centuries.

Oh, God. Memories rushed into Kat's head: New York, the lively, bustling city, where people were mostly cold and rude and isolated, but also where all of Kat's friends were. Jen's shy grin, her irritating habit of constantly toying with her hair (and Kat's), her way of leaning in and whispering gossip and secrets into Kat's ear. Then there was Keith. His hollering laugh was clear as the sun in her head, the way he threw his head back and laughed so hard he couldn't breathe, especially after he'd made a brutally honest (or terribly offensive) joke, his slight over-protectiveness and cheer. And then she'd cover her mouth with her oversized sweater sleeves that went way past her fingertips, because she was laughing and she knew but she didn't want to admit it. She'd pay anything to go back and be with them in the concrete forest, and not sixty-hundred miles away from them.

Hell, she didn't even know why her parents decided to move, and move here, of all places. This town was about as exciting as the desert. And when she tried to explain her feelings to her parents, they just replied with a vague mutter, usually including the words "phone call" and "FaceTime" and, occasionally, "Skype".

She knew she could call her friends, sure, but it wasn't the same, dammit. She couldn't go and walk with them for their weekly coffee. She couldn't go and hang out with them in the park. She couldn't pass notes to them in class. She couldn't devise ways with them to cheat on the next big exam. It's almost gonna be like talking to God, she almost laughed to herself.

Her brother, Dale, opened his car door and stepped out onto the pavement with Mom, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder.

"Kat?" He looked in the car to see if she'd woken up yet. "Let's go."

"Yeah, ok." She sighed and reluctantly got out of her comfortable, half-slouching, half-sitting position, opened the door, and nearly tumbled out onto the asphalt. She braced herself with an outstretched palm and swore—her legs were still asleep, static humming through them like electric cables now that she'd dared disturb them, her cat staring at her curiously from the car seat. And then she felt the sun.

Kat turned back and grabbed her backpack, looking with a half-envious glare at her cat, who chirruped innocently and then hopped off the car. They went together around the back of the car to get her luggage bag. That was it. Each person was allowed just one backpack or duffel bag and one luggage bag: Her dad's idea. She sighed again. She wasn't sure as to the logic of her dad's rule, but it was what it was.

Her dad walked eagerly up to the fence that encircled the house--rows of metal originally painted white, but, like the rest of the house, now peeling and rusting and diseased--and opened the short gate. They walked up to the staircase and heaved the bags up the flights one at a time, bringing them to a balcony overlooking the front yard. The balcony was wooden, darkened and greyed with age, but still looked strong. Kat didn't dare jump, though. There was never knowing when something might break and send her plummeting down twenty-three feet.