The Pharmacy (UNEDITED)

Chapter Thirteen

Danique

Heavenly Father, may You make me well. I often took what I had for granted. I miss my parents. I miss my life. You know what is good for me, so may You lead me upon a path of peace and righteousness. May You heal my friends and my soul, and cleanse my eyes of what they have seen. I am grateful for my healing, and I have You to thank for keeping the angels with me and saving me.

Amen.

May 16th.

"Danique, darling, are you ready?" Uncle Hermann called out to me. Of course, I was already seated in the living room. Little white dress, little white hat, little black shoes. Sitting pretty, of course.

"Yes, Uncle," I supressed a gag. I don't consider him my Uncle, let alone a Godfather. Heaven knows that I shall never consider this couple of any guardianship to me. Why was Adéle in the basement? There's only a few conclusions.

"Church is not waiting for us, Hermann," Aunt Elena's mother-toned voice pierced the air, "Come down already!"

She watched herself in the mirror as she fumbled with some flowers on her jacket. I didn't spark any conversations. I couldn't. I shouldn't. I shan't.

"It's a good thing you've been cured, sweetheart," the woman twisted a small chattered to me, "That ordeal with the police really hurt you."

"Yeah, that happens when you find a cold, lifeless body in the house..." I muttered.

"Oh, poor dear..." She walked over to me, taking the seat beside me. I immediately hoped that she wouldn't notice my body suddenly tensing. "What brought you there? That officer must have been so awful..."

"The smell was killing me, and the door was unlocked."

Lie #3568.

"Darling is there anything you need?" She stroked my back. I bit my inner lip to control myself.

"I'm fine," I stalely replied.

"Are you sure, sweetheart? I can bring you anything you'd like," she looked at me with intent. My stomach churned from the conflicted emotions that were racking my insides.

"I'm fine, Aunt," I strained with a tone of annoyance that I couldn't supress. She, taken aback, sighed and left her seat, an action which washed me with great relief, and guilt.

Fabian has been my only source of comfort, even if I visit on very distanced times. He seems to wash me away from my whims and worries, as if I travel away when he is with me. With his father around, though, I'm not sure if he's been able to hold himself up, either. No matter where you step, there is turmoil, there is weakness, there is suffering. You are the only person who can change how you view that. There is peace, there is strength, there is joy. If only I saw my world that way. Perhaps Fabian does.

Walking to church was also a great escape from my fears. Often I gawked at the trees and the birds and the people. All kinds of people. It was almost like walking in a gallery; every section has its artist and that artist has his artwork. There is the woman across the street who reads a book held in the veiniest and skinniest hand I've ever seen—she is painted by Gustav Klimt. There is the man who smokes beside his daughter of goddess-like beauty on the bench— they are painted by Johannes Vermeer. Then there is the lone child who sits beneath the flourishing tree, bathed in broken and patterned sunlight as he strokes a white dandelion beneath his soft, sun-tanned fingers. His artist in unknown.