delta

one

chapter one

THE NIGHTS WERE LONGER than the days.

Sunrise, if there ever was any, never stayed around long enough for someone to see it. There were pictures painted and told about the sky being light and sunlight filtering through the dark mass of woodland. But that's what they stayed. Pictures. Stories, folklore.

Truthfully, a myth.

A girl stood on the porch of her father's home, looking up at the sky. In another universe, maybe she would have spent the time chasing the colours of the sun falling. Painting the colours brilliant hues of blue and orange, with dashes of yellow and magenta here and there.

There wasn't anything of interest to her, just the same stars that were out all the time. She could only look at the sky for so long without growing bored of it.

Her fingers tapped against the wood, brittle under the callouses of her fingers. Pieces of wood stuck out from a few years of decay, poking the tops of her fingers like thorns.

"Ouch," she breathed as one dug in slightly, pulling her hands off the rail. She turned her hand over to see a splinter lodged in her forefinger.

A loud bout of laughter erupted from inside, followed by crashes and drunken singing. Softly and quietly, the girl took a step to the window, peering in.

Through the dark that settled around the room, the figures clumsily drank more and fell onto the ground. They didn't hurry to get up, letting childish giggles out of their mouths.

Two of them were sprawled across a sofa limply, their chests rising like the sun might have. For all she knew, they could be dead. She wasn't quite sure what she would do if the were. Probably more than the rest of the drunkards. They all were too drunk to care.

The girl breathed out disappointment in small even breaths, stepping away from the window.

Beneath her feet, the rotting wood creaked, groaning at every thump of her heart. Her left foot dipped down in the floor, almost touching the small patches of grass that were left.

"Some home," the girl mumbled, heart-aching and numb. Wordlessly, she tip-toed over to the steps leading up to what was left of the porch and gently lowered herself on to them. They also creaked but it flew through her ears like white noise.

Resting her elbow on her knee and in her palm, her head, the girl blinked down at the dirt by her shoes.

She felt weak at times like this, where she felt like the smallest inconvenience would set her howling to the wind. There wasn't a watery presence in her eyes but that didn't mean the feeling wasn't there.

She would have hated for her mother to have seen the man she loved all her life turning into an aspiring alcoholic and deadbeat father.

It's a good life we live, Delta, she would have said.

Maybe it had a good one. Or perhaps she'd just been spoiled so much that it had risen her idea of 'good'. It could be worse. Her father could not have a job. They could be out in the streets.

It always could be worse.

Her fingers tapped against her chin, one then the others like the motion of a wave.