Prom Queen ｡ Michael Langdon

3 - GRIZZLY TALES

     The front door shook in its frame, rattling against its old metal hinges. Margaret Moore turned on her daughter in a fresh fury. The woman was always quick to anger and violence, and she had passed that down to her daughter. It travelled in the blood, locked away in the cells until it was the perfect time to burst free, spiking rather impulsively when triggered. However, the two Moore's held anger differently in their hearts. Margaret's anger was linked to her religious beliefs, as a way to punish and repent, and Carrie's anger was bottled up with fear. The teenage girl didn't know it yet, but her anger would be used for revenge and freedom. 

     "What were you thinking? Probably wicked thoughts," Margaret hissed at Carrie, her hand wrapped around her daughter's wrist like a vice. Carrie struggled to keep the borrowed book tucked up against her side. No doubt her mother would bruise her if she saw the title of the book. "I don't want you mixing with him, with them!" Her voice was like thunder, echoing throughout the small house, bleeding through the thin walls. Carrie supposed that Michael, across the one-way street, could probably hear the yelling. Mrs Bicken's, next door, often complained about the noise but never called the authorities despite the fact the old widow clearly knew about the domestic violence that occurred over her cherry tomato vines that covered the wooden fence that separated the two properties. 

     "You mean our new neighbours?" Carrie asked, her brows pulling together. So Michael had a family, then? She didn't even get a moment to ponder of what sort of family he belonged to. 

     "They're strangers!" she yelled into her daughter's face. Margaret Moore was rather beautiful, with a mane of hair a shade or two redder than Carrie's peach blonde. Margaret was tall and slim, like a model and her features were sharp but a little hallowed now from age. Carrie believed her mother was graceful but her cruelty made that grace vanish. "And there are already whispers about them. Terrible whispers." It was no surprise that Margaret already knew something about the new family. She worked at a dry-cleaning shop in the strip mall three streets over, right next to a busy local hair salon. While Margaret would never start gossip, she did listen to it. The words of a whisperer are like delicious morsels: they go down into the inner parts of the body. Hairdressers liked to talk, with shining lips and long manicured nails, and they didn't really mind who they talked to, and they certainly liked to wag their tongues to Margaret Moore. While abusive to her daughter, Margaret was the perfect picture of a Christian woman who baked treats and volunteered at the community centre and never missed Sunday's service. She wore long, faded dresses with neat cardigans and sweeping curls that never looked tangled like Carrie's. 

     "No, Mama. Michael seems nice—" Carrie tried in a small voice, but Margaret's grip tightened, her fingers made of steel. "I was only talking to him. Being polite. You shall love your neighbour as you love yourself, right?" she added frantically, trying to pull her arm free, but it was no use. 

     "Don't you dare quote the Bible to me, girl." Margaret's nails bit into her daughter's flesh, breaking the surface to reveal fresh, shining blood. 

     "You're hurting me!" Carrie cried out, her knees buckling with the pain. 

     "No mixing with those people, especially that boy. Do you understand me?" Margaret commanded, her sheet of red hair sliding over her thin shoulders. Carrie nodded, biting at her bottom lip to keep a sob locked behind her teeth. "I need to hear it!" 

     "Yes. Yes, Mama. I understand," she whispered, hot tears springing in her blue eyes. And Michael Langdon could, in fact, hear the altercation through the thin walls. The sounds of shouting and crying had echoed into the one-way street as twilight descended onto the city of angels, and his shadowed heart ached with sour nostalgia and stabbing empathy.