River of Dreams

River of Dreams: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"The beat is complete with the sound of your world going up in the fire. . ."—The Cure, "Doing the Unstuck"

Here's the good news: the initial hype from the Michigan Whorehouse Massacre (as dubbed by the local press) had dwindled away, swallowing Mom's iron-clad will with it. No longer was I trapped inside the house like a convicted criminal or branded to her side like an unwanted tattoo—finally, she stopped smothering me like a pathetic, needy kid. Finally, I could breathe. The rights granted to me upon birth were once again bestowed on me and I graciously accepted them. Anyone could see how excited I was when Mom opened the front door yesterday, lashed her finger out, and demanded that I left the "damn house for once in my life". And I did; that morning, I threw myself back onto the grass and basked in the warm sun all day long.

With the warmth beating down on me like the pulsing rhythm to a catchy tune, I couldn't help but feel happy. I mean, for that brief moment in time, I could actually imagine a world where nothing was wrong—where my friends weren't scattered across the globe; where something wasn't stalking around in the woods in search of blood; where someone wasn't cruel enough to gank twenty-one young girls in the one place they felt safest. For that moment, I could imagine everything was like it was before.

And it was a wonderful feeling.

The opposite side to that coin wasn't as appealing. Let's just say Mom expected me to faire l'epicerie, whatever that meant. Today, she threw open the front door (much like the day before), thrust an endlessly long list into my face, and demanded that I "complete every single item written on that sheet of paper". Her steely eyes drilled an implied "or else" into my brain and I squirmed like a bug under her scrutiny. She can be really intimidating when she wanted to be. So I took that list and darted out the door in search for the old bike I had abandoned somewhere behind the house months earlier.

And I rode away.

And that feeling was not-so-wonderful.

I handed the cashier the twenty dollar bill Mom had given me, snagging a green lollipop from the bowl on the counter when he wasn't watching. After calculating the change, he smiled and gave it back to me, the wrinkled, sun-tanned skin around his eyes crinkling. I returned the gesture and grabbed my purchase from the counter.

Outside, I checked the dry-cleaners, the last item, off of the list. After a full day of doing nothing but mindless activities for my mom, I think I finally came up with the definition of faire l'epicerie: it's a torture mechanism designed to drag poor, defenseless children like me all around town just to waste their time. And it worked. Right now, I could have been sleeping. Or eating. Or using my ninja bunny skills to defeat the evil mutant teddy bears on my game counsel. But no—nstead, I was doing this. 

Combing through the bills I had in my hand, I realized I had enough money to buy something from the little music shop in town. The store was crap but at least it had awesome music for a low, affordable price. It's kind of like the Wal-Mart of dinky little music stores. Mom specifically told me not to waste her money on anything non-important. . . but screw it, who cared? Anyways, if anything, this would teach her not to put me on "grocery day" duty again. With a grunt, I pushed off and followed the path in the woods to the store.

"Hey Amy!" the boy behind the desk said cheerfully. "How's our favorite customer?"

"I'm great—" I glanced at the name tag on his navy blue sweat shirt "—Carl. Have anything new?"

His brown eyes sparked with excitement as he pulled something out from under the desk. "Mama Mia! The soundtrack!"

"Ooh," I purred reaching out for the CD. The plastic covering reflected the bad lighting in the store. "I love ABBA. How much?"