⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ⁰¹ THE LETTER T
The first layer of fog begins to roll in, smoothing itself among the sea of houses, clinging to the rooftops as the sky projects a complex array of amber and gold.
Across the street, the glow of a single streetlamp decorates the pavement, creating a barrier between the concrete and the darkness yet to come. Drifting gently through the clouds as though it is a simple yellow-tinted balloon, the sun's rays light the walkway in a perfect aureate light that is beginning to fade. The sky slowly drains the vibrant colours of the day into a vacuum of nothingness, letting the hues of deep violet and midnight blue take over.
Tendrils of wind flow gently through the skeletal branches of the trees, rustling the leaves that float like discarded confetti to the ground. The curtain of peacefulness is broken only occasionally, whether it be by the odd squabble between squirrels, the song of the crickets or birds calling out to one another through short and repetitive tunes.
Puddles sit like stains wedged in the very corners of the street, glistening slightly when the sun-like rays from the streetlamp hit them at the right angle. Water kicks up in feathery coils of light as a pair of worn red Chuck Taylors tread through the brief gatherings of day-old dew. The vivid glow from the sun falls flawlessly upon her face, elucidating the freckled, pale skin that is hidden by a billowing mess of hair.
It's late evening, exactly seven twenty-one, a good forty minutes or so before Bailey Lefay would need to arrive back home, if she didn't want to be walking home in darkness. Even now the stars glimmer slightly, like smudges of silver crying to be seen against the fiery setting. A heavy breath escapes her lips, and a cloud of mist protrudes as the warm and cold air collide.
Her mind is laced with thoughts that mean nothing — her upcoming baseball tournament, where the renowned Hawkins team would compete against the notorious Crestview Academy, curiosity as to if Tower Records would have the new stock of Duran Duran CD's piled in yet, and queries dated back to this morning on whether or not she had had enough time to feed the ginger tabby next door — and so as she rounds the corner, sending a small pile of leaves spiralling with the kick of a foot, Bailey isn't expecting to nearly topple head-over-heels into a smug looking Kitty Davinia. And she certainly isn't expecting the menacing, and by far most dangerous boy in school: Ace Abreo, to be waiting for her.
Bailey turns hastily, rationality and practicality both seemingly lost as she begins to tear down the cobblestone path. Her feet hit the ground heavily, each street flying by in a flurry of breath and fear. Her thoughts are clouded, confused as to why this is occurring. However, liable to the situation, Bailey concludes that she's going to be enlightened with that information in the near future. Her heart pounds against her ribcage as though it is a punching bag, each rapid beat hurting more and more as time goes on.
"Lefay," Ace's deep voice rattles from behind her. Given that a portion of his volume gets lost in the wind, she decides that she has managed to place a substantial amount of distance between her and the pursuers. "You're a dead man walking," his voice is raspy, tired from running, but relentless nonetheless. "Do you hear me? You're dead!"
Resistant stone gradually evolves into a lustrous bed of grass that guides her into the depths of the forest. Bailey weaves skilfully between dips, and treads through the shallow pools where rainfall has gathered. With clouded visibility and lack of natural vibrancy, the task of guiding herself through the trees becomes more of a struggle than usual. Bailey only has her gut instinct and good sense of direction to work with.
After years of adventuring the woods, Bailey has become accustomed to the placement of things. She knows the set out as well as she knows the back of her hand; as well as she knows her own home — a small, cramped house, that hadn't been built to fit six children. She knows where to place her feet as well as she knows which stairs do and do not creak; as well as she knows her mother's moods; is as familiar with the dirt trail as she is the drips and leaks that garnish the walls of home.
Though her energy is slowly diminishing— with her head pounding and chest yelling for her to stop— she endeavours forward; travelling stone over stone, fallen branch over fallen branch. A moment of bravery grasps her and Bailey chances a glance over her shoulder as though she is Risk's puppet, and euphoria shrouds her body in a warm blanket; the two threatening shadows are no longer in sight. The ghost of her usual bright smile is apparent, but she can't quite shake off the rapid beat of her still pulsating heart.
She begins to slow her pace, glad that the frantic and anxiety inducing chase is over. That is until a strong fist comes crashing into the centre of her face. It was a good hit, frankly — Bailey was able to admit that first hand, as she had grown accustomed to the brutality of being punched — and she falls straight to the ground like a bag of sand. Stars crowd her vision as she lifts a tentative hand towards her nose, where she is met with a river of blood that flows with a sickening determination from the vessel, like her own heart seeks to pump it from her body.
"Shit," Bailey remarks rather inelegantly, incapable of moving, her back feeling as though it is superglued to the ground. Sharp thorns that acted as such gallant protectors to the roses latch onto her spine, drawing small droplets of blood as she releases a shaken breath. Stars dance rather sillily across her vision, causing difficulty in making out the one who had sent her spiralling downwards. It is lucky that Tilly Pearce has such striking features; her dyed hot-pink hair and distinctively red lips that curl into such a wicked smile are hard to mistake for anyone else's. The floor beneath Bailey trembles as the thunderous footsteps of the two original chaser's near. A chorus of giggles, that alone make Bailey squeeze her eyes shut, liberate themselves from the lips of the two girls. Ace, on the other hand, is more interested in the blood covered girl who is laying immobile on the leaf-blanketed earth.
"Well, well, well," Ace remarks tauntingly, taking one or two paces in Bailey's direction. Despite the ever fading light, the evil glint that sparks in Ace's bright blue eyes is still as apparent, and still as frightening as ever. "Look what the cat dragged in today." He bends his knees and tilts his head ever so slightly, making sure he has the full attention of the twelve-year-old girl that lays before him. The way he delivers his clearly pre-practiced lines strikes a nerve of dread inside Bailey; one that sends strong signals for her to run away, one that wills her to break down crying. But Bailey refuses to do either of those things. Instead she stares back at the brunette boy, her half-closed green eyes showing an attempt at defiance. "Bring her up," Ace commands.
It's Tilly who reaches for Bailey first, barring her chest with her forearm and forcing Bailey's head to lull in the direction of her accomplices. Her vigorous fingers leave red swollen marks against Bailey's fairly coloured collarbones and jutting shoulder blades, which would no doubt mature into a darker, much more harrowing shade of black. She twists uncomfortably, desperate to break free, but to no avail. Her arms struggle in futile attempts at landing a punch, but it appears no use. Claustrophobia begins to settle in as she looses complete control of the situation. "Now, where do you think you're going?" Ace asks, his deeply coloured eyes widening in mock sympathy.
"Oh, I don't know," Bailey speaks, sarcasm dripping from each word. "I was hoping to catch your mom before she settles down for the night." She scrunches her nose slightly — with much pain— as she continues. "No, I was actually hoping you would piss off. I don't want to get beat up by some Sting-looking douchebag." Ace's complexion flashes with only the slightest embarrassment, and his smile crawls off his face, making him look even more frightening than before.
"Who's Sting?" Kitty asks, her voice slurring with stupidity, Tilly nodding in mutual confusion. Bailey's eyebrows shoot skywards, disbelief taking the place of fear for only a few moments.
"Who's Sting? Are you serious?" Bailey smiles. "Oh shit, she's serious." She laughs loudly. "Well, forget this satanic ritual thing we have going on, she needs a fucking music education." By the time Bailey finishes her commentary, she can practically feel the anger radiating from Ace, who clenches his jaw in disapproval.
Tilly releases the young girl from her taut hold, and twigs crunch beneath her feet as she takes a cautious step backwards. Simultaneously, Ace strides forward, punching Bailey powerfully in the firm area that lay between her stomach and ribs. Her head rocks forward, followed by the entirety of her body. She lands once again, sprawled clumsily in a state of pure agony, the world and the earth and the sky appearing to spiral in a flurry of dim colour. As though she feels it necessary to contribute, Kitty lands a sharp blow to her left side; Bailey only knows it's the redhead as she can see the faint, clouded outlines of the other two.
"Tie her up," Ace demands, his voice seeming far off, as a high-pitched ringing pierces Bailey's ears. Surprise and panic lock her mind in a fiercely guarded cage, making it next to impossible to even think about fighting back. And so Bailey reluctantly allows herself to be placed against the nearest tree in sight, her back shoved aggressively into the sharp, damp bark. She can feel the cool metallic buckle of a belt against her wrists, being drawn tighter, tighter, tighter. She groans in distress, though the rest of her body feels painfully numb. "Now, you're probably wondering why exactly we've put you in this situation." Ace states the obvious. "Do you have any thoughts on why that might be?"
"Well, personally, I just thought this was an average Sunday night sorta meeting." Bailey smiles strenuously up at them, a strange rush of adrenaline causing a sudden racing in her heart. She tries to wriggle her wrists, but this appears unsuccessful. "Jesus, most people end their weekend with a nice cup of coffee, not some demonic sacrifice. Yes, please, do inform me as to why we are gathered here today."
A hit is thrown once more to her ribs, though the discomfort is barely noticeable in comparison to her other injuries. "For starters, you're gonna want to watch that loud-mouth you've got there, or you're going to make this much more difficult than it has to be." Ace begins to pace back and forth, fingers clasped as he launches into his explanation. "Three weeks ago I discovered that my wallet had mysteriously disappeared. Now, I didn't exactly know when this... misplacement occurred because I always keep my money close to me, so that got me to thinking: when did I last have it? I settled upon the understanding that I had had it up until four o'clock on Tuesday evening. So of course, my next train of thought was to try and recall where exactly I was at that time."
Ace pauses, glancing to see if Bailey has caught on yet, but she just stares blankly back at him, a hint of amusement quirking at the corner of her lip. "And then it hit me. I had been leaving a detention I had after school — I only remember this, because it's one of the few I actually turned up to. And, as I'm sure you know, I had a rather unfortunate run in with you. You came crashing down the hallway, a stupid smile on your face, followed quickly by one of your little baseball friends." Ace's features darken. "And you tumbled into me. I thought nothing of it at the time but," he sighs manipulatively. "Who else could've robbed me. And we don't tolerate thieves. People like you need to be punished."
"Woah, woah, woah, ok," Bailey rushes her words, the syllables starting to merge together. "Come on man, we can talk this out. Violence isn't the key to success, yeah?" There is no change in Ace's expression, and this triggers dread to course through her veins, feeling like its own brutal beating. She hadn't meant anything by the petty theft— a wallet had simply fallen on the floor, and to her own misfortune it seemed to have been the one and only Ace Abreo's. Had she known better, there was no way she would have taken a thing; plus stealing wasn't a habit she indulged in often, but her family had needed dinner that night. "Dude, no offence, but there wasn't even that much in there."
"You're talking like you have more." Ace clicks his tongue, causing Bailey to shake her head, adamant that she would never imply something like that. "Maybe you were just surprised to actually be associated with that much money. You know, most people aren't so shocked to see a bit of cash."
"Honestly, the least surprising thing in there was the extra-small condom." Bailey snickers. "No, no, I'm sorry that one slipped out. No, lets work this out like the mature people we are."
"Mature?" Kitty jibes in. "That's a bit of a stretch for you, eh?" Bailey sticks her tongue in her cheek, the only action she can express given her confined state. "Are we gunna do this or what?" Kitty glances round at the rest of the group, who all nod keenly.
"My pleasure," Ace breaks into a grin. He turns his back and begins to walk away. Bailey's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she cranes her neck as much as she can without launching herself into complete paralysis. Returning moments later, Bailey can now see Ace is gripping a rather long, metal poker in one of his hands, and a blowtorch in the other. Her heart plummets, possibly dropping even below her feet, eyes feeling as though they bulge out of their sockets. It feels like thousands of needles prick against her spine, her throat narrowing and a blanket of mist falling over her brain.
"I know you sports stars aren't so in touch with your literacy side, so I feel I owe you a bit of a backstory." Bailey pushes herself as close to the tree as possible, wishing for it to swallow her up completely. Her breaths become quicker, shorter, and more frequent, but little air manages to penetrate her lungs, finally bringing her to silence. A cold sweat breaks out at her temples, rolling down her face as though a ghost has just passed through her body. "I wanted to make sure that you would never do something like this again. And for that to happen, the consequences of your actions would have to be," He smirks, pressing the trigger on the blowtorch with his index finger. "Severe."
Like the unfurling petals of a frozen scarlet flower, the flames rise up and engulf the end of the poker, the treacherous blaze a total polarity to the surroundings. Bailey can feel the heat etching closer to her face, the air between her and the weapon rippling perilously.
"I had been attempting to formulate a plan and in the end I was left with many options. Three to be exact," Ace rotates the poker, making sure to get good coverage; his gleaming eyes are fixated on the tool, tipping his head to the side to follow his own actions. "Option one: keep it simple. At first I didn't feel the need to jazz it up too much. I could go with the generic beating up, leave you with a few good bruises. But if I went for that there was no guarantee that you wouldn't just carry out the same thing again, simply for a brief and quickly healed aftermath. So that was off the table.
"Option two: exploitation. I could tell everyone what you had done. Someone else may have had something stolen from them and their eyes could fall upon you for the blame. I could assure you that if I did that you'd receive a lot of abuse from a lot of people. I liked this option. But I figured, something else would come up eventually, and this would just blow over. It would be a thing of the past. Especially in your area," Bailey recoils at the way he says this. "The Ghetto. The slums. I've heard how it is down there, all sorts of violent business going on down that part. So, logically my mind diverted to other alternatives.
"And then it hit me," A note of glee enters his voice, pride swelling inside his chest. "I entered the library, what, two weeks ago? I forget. I'm searching the shelves, when my eyes fall upon one of Nathaniel Hawthorn's most famous books: The Scarlet Letter. I myself am not a religious person, but I believe this to have been fate. Have you heard of this book before?" Bailey's face is paler than ever, and she fears that if she is to part her lips even slightly, her insides may flip. She shakes her head, a single tear flickers in her eye, but will never spill. "I hadn't assumed so. I don't intend to explore it in great depth, but the bottom line of the story is this: The main character, Hester Prynne, commits the crime of adultery, which is considered a great deal at the time. In return she is brandished with the letter 'A', so that everyone can see what she has done and the mark is left etched in her skin forever, to remind her of what she has done.
"Of course, there's no need for me to scar you with the letter A, that wouldn't have quite the same effect. It wouldn't make sense. So I spent the following weeks creating this," He now slants the utensil, giving Bailey an explicit view. "The letter T." It had been carved carefully from steel, and fused to the thin, cylindrical poker. In an instant, the torch is shut off, the glow of the metal shines for a moment or two longer, then fades. "I think we're ready to go."
His two acquired comrades arrive in their previously arranged stances, preparing to carry out their warped vision of correction. Kitty's cold fingers brush against the bottom of Bailey's hairline, delicately pulling her shoulder-length blonde hair away. The older girl exerts a quivering breath that's entangled with concern and sympathy for the girl that she had fastened to the tree. It's a odd sentiment, given the fact that her strange piteous instinct has kicked in far too late, and there is merely nothing she can do to change the corse of events that's about to take place, but she feels it just the same. Tilly on the other hand watches in psychopathic relish —standing next to Kitty incase anything is to go wrong— as Ace treads towards their dupe, poker angled steadily towards the back of Bailey's neck.
It takes a second or two before the scorching feeling computes in her brain, but when it does her face morphs into a portrait of pure horror. Like a jolt of electricity, the pain shoots, not only in the place of contact, but down her spine, through her limbs, enthralling her mind. White hot fingers engulf around her throat, choking away the last remnants of laughter or joy. Its not the torment to her chest that's gripping her like a vice, that feels as though it's suffocating her, it's the morbid heat that she can't stand. And so the yell that emerges from the pit of her stomach is one of sheer and utter anguish. Heartbreaking. Unheard. No one in the right mind to save her is in near vicinity. And she can do nothing but wait the torture out.
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
Bailey's cold fingers grip the edge of the white porcelain sink, her boney knuckles turning a sickening ivory colour. The shower still drips with scolding hot droplets, tapping monotonously into the bathtub. Condensation hangs thick in the air, floating humidly around the room, its only escape being the thin crack under the door, that glows with a nauseating yellow light. Bailey looks over to the mirror, a pair of green eyes meeting her own. Her blonde hair — a ruffled wet mess — sticks out in a thousand different directions, beads of water clinging to the ends of each strand.
Spreading blue with red blotches sit upon the surfaces of her cheeks; the bruises come in bold and bright, shining amongst the freckles as she tilts her head. She leans over the sink basin, eyes widening so she can get a better look at the damage. She hovers a slender index finger above the marking, the temptation to prod even though she knows it will cause agony is almost too much. Bailey winces as she remembers the firm fist striking her directly in the nose. She doesn't think it's broken, but the red swellings under her eyes suggest a fracture.
The light cotton of her t-shirt slides comfortably over the surface of her skin, yet every time she moves she's reminded of the ugly blisters and painful scarring on the back of her neck. The water in the shower had run scarlet with blood, and Bailey's sure she has bitten a hole in her cheek to keep her from crying out. Every bone in her body aches, but she choses to ignore this — she's become used to it; in her neighbourhood she's had to grow accustomed to enduring such injuries.
A sharp rap at the door startles her only slightly, persuading her to form an upright stance. "Bailey! Hurry the fuck up, please," Finn, Bailey's second oldest brother, states in his constant, sarcastic tone. "I need you to take out that trash." He pauses a moment, and Bailey opens her mouth to speak. "And stop using all the hot water!"
"Yes, master, at your service," Bailey comments jokingly, bowing slightly even though Finn can't see her from the confinement of the bathroom. She laughs at herself, before swinging the wooden door open. The door is covered in scratches of ink and crayons, dating back to Bailey's early childhood, and the white paint is beginning to peel, revealing the murky brown beneath it. The rusty golden hinges squeak, and a cloud of steam billows down the hallway.
Bailey strides out of the shower room, clattering past the bedroom doors and horribly embarrassing school pictures that hang wonkily on the beige plaster walls. As she begins her venture downstairs, she is met with her eldest brother, Ringo — who's eyes are half closed, and slightly red. Tiredness is Bailey's best bet.
Bailey slides slightly on the slippery stairs, her white woollen socks providing no grip. "Woah, watch yourself there," Ringo springs into dreary action, catching Bailey's torso before she falls. Bailey gives a strong thumbs up, pushing an exaggerated grin onto her face. "Hey, erm," Ringo lowers his voice. "Did you pick up that packet of cigarettes from, the... erm, the shop at the corner of sixth avenue?"
By 'pick up' Bailey knows Ringo means steal. Ringo likes to think of Bailey as his trusty recruit, a partner in crime. Bailey has a slight and clever way with her hands, years of practicing piano and drums — quite opposing instruments— had embellished her with a unique skill. "'Course. What do you take me for?" Bailey grins, reaching into the pocket of her grey sweatpants. Her fingers grasp the rectangular box, covered in a thin plastic sheeting. She holds it out to him, and he takes it secretively. "Can I have one?" Bailey attempts to convince him, keeping her voice low but mischievous.
Ringo carries on up the steps, and doesn't look back as he snorts. "Yeah, right, in your dreams, kid." He pauses, and Bailey can hear him rustling to unwrap the concealed packet. "And you look like you've been dragged through the pits of hell and back. What happened to you this time?"
"Eh," Bailey swats a hand and wanders into the kitchen, "just fell over," She yells, making sure her brother can hear. She walks poignantly toward the rickety front door, where her Chuck Taylors lie. They are shrouded in a dusty layer of dirt, the soles matted with mud and leaves and the laces are no longer clean, instead a light shade of grey.
"Bailey, trash, now!" Finn yells loudly, from the bedroom he, Ringo and Freddie — her ten year old brother — all share. Bailey calls back a reply, sighing to herself as she heaves the black trash bag over her shoulder. Though it only contains folded cardboard and screwed up paper, she still scrunches her nose by instinct.
The night's familiar sapphire breeze has a scent like salt, concrete and green foxtails. The ashen sky flatteringly shows off its billions of stars, both exploded and living into the serendipity of existence. Frost grows in a paper-thin layer over the untrustworthy windows of the house, and ice crystals hang onto the blades of grass. The morning will bring the beauty of the ice for sure, the kind that will crunch under a pair of shoes once it finally settles down.
A bright pair of yellow eyes glow eerily in the dim light that's emitted from the neighbouring houses. A strangled, but clearly audible meow echoes in the night air, and Bailey makes her unsure way towards the sound. She walks blindly to its whereabouts, guided by the beady shine of the eyes. "Toto," Bailey calls out, talking to the feline as though it is merely another of her friends. "That you, Toto?" Bailey shuffles along the pathway, the sound of her shoelaces drags behind her faintly.
Another drawled mew sounds, and this time Bailey can see the ginger fur of the young tabby, its tail curling into a solitary sphere against the navy blue plastic of the bin. "Hey, buddy, could you just," Bailey attempts to gently nudge the tabby out of the way, but to no avail. "Or not, I guess," she sighs, her eyes rolling in a slight circle as she places the bin bag on the ground. She runs her fingers innocently along the tabby's spine, its patterned back arching in the air at her unseen touch. Bailey stands for a moment, huffing at how easily she gives in to an animal of so little size.
She scoops up Toto in her arms, cradling him like she would a young baby; though she is somewhat more comfortable showing affection to this particular animal than she is any other human being. "You're just trying to get me in trouble with Finn aren't you," Bailey pouts, glaring lovingly at the mess of white, orange and brown fur in front of her. She laughs, as Toto replies with a simple wholesome mewl. His soft, pink paws reach for Bailey's cold-tinted cheeks. She lowers her face so that Toto can tap her cuts and bruises with his effortless humility. His fur is spattered with the dampness of night, and Bailey knows she'll have to rinse her face once more, due to the fact that dark soil and broken leaves dotted the surface of Toto's coat.
"Well," Bailey raises her eyebrows. "You know I'm gonna have to put you down," Toto cries in protest, as though he understands each word Bailey utters. "I'm sorry, but you know the rules, yeah?" Toto goes silent. "That's what I thought dude. You know what happened last time there was an animal in the house. That sure as hell didn't go down peachy now, did it?"
Ding!
Both Toto and Bailey raise their heads simultaneously, their eyes searching for the source of sound. The circular light of a bike nears the place in which the two companions stand. The bell comes from the bike of a young boy, of the same age as Bailey is — though he looks much younger, mainly due to his small size. He is easily identifiable owing to his unmistakable bowl cut, and the bright morality in his deep brown eyes.
Ding, ding!
Instead of curiosity, Bailey looks up this time in joy, happy to see the soft and kind face of Will Byers. "Will!" She calls happily, shoving open the rickety wooden gate that leads to her house. 'How pleasant to see you at this fine hour!' Her greeting is perhaps over-enthusiastic, yet it never fails to bring a wide smile to Will's face. The brunette brings his bike to a slow stop at the curb, and dismounts the form of transport elegantly, holding it upright with two delicate hands.
"Hi," A soft, friendly smile dawns upon his face as he manages a timid greeting. "Are you ok?" He inquires. A jolt of anxiety courses through Bailey's veins, her immediate thoughts travelling to how her face looks, though she's quick to settle her own fears; it's far too dark to see much more than each other's eyes.
"Yeah, no, all good," Bailey replies gently. She's always careful to change her tone around Will, perhaps worried that the small boy won't feel comfortable enough around her if she were to say the wrong thing. "How about you? You must be buzzing still from that math test on Friday," An embarrassed, yet proud sort of flush rises to greet Will's eyes, and a small flurry of pride swells in his chest as she continues. "I mean, top of the class? Shit dude, that's mad! I could never."
"Thanks," Will states shyly. "Well, you didn't do too bad, did you?"
'You mean I didn't fail this time,' They both laugh at this. 'Yeah, well,' She shrugs, 'I actually managed to sit through this one.' Another bout of chuckles. Bailey had gathered quite a reputation for not even turning up to tests — the mere thought of a Pop-quiz made her want to break her arm, simply for an excuse not to go. She couldn't place her finger on what it was precisely, but the way her thoughts ran at a million miles an hour, and the way her muscles tensed when a multiple-choice sheet was placed in front of her was overwhelming— and the words being all jumbled on the page definitely didn't help.
"Hey, do you listen to The Clash?" Will wonders after a deep breath and a minute of thought. Heat rises to his cheeks instantly. Will Byers didn't talk to a multitude of people at school— most people knew that by now— he preferred his minimal group of friends by far. He didn't interact with popular kids, least of all girls. The point is, he didn't interact with people like Bailey. He rushes to get his next string of words out. "It's just— well I see you're always listening to music at school. And like, I always hear you talking about it with your friends. And, you know, I really like music too, so I was just wondering... if you had... listened to them." He lets out a nervous sigh.
"The Clash?" Bailey repeats warmly, her joking tone ever present. "'Course I have! I mean who hasn't, they're literally so cool." She says excitedly, wanting to make sure Will knew he could talk to her anytime — she could sense his nerves and awkwardness from a mile off, and made it her task to diminish any uncomfortableness. "I have like,"she lets out a puff of breath. "One-hundred thousand million tapes and CD's. What do you listen on?"
"Well, I have an older brother, Jonathan, and he lets me borrow his tapes, and tape player." When Will mentions his brother, Bailey's able to tell — simply from the way he speaks — that Jonathan is someone Will admires. "Mine broke a couple months back, and no one in my family's very good with that sort of thing so..."
"It's still broken?" Bailey finishes. "Damn, I could never go that long with a broken player." There's a pause for a moment. "My brother's really good at that sort of thing he works in a repairs and supplies shop, so, er... I guess you could bring it 'round some time and he'd be more than happy to fix it." Will goes to speak, but Bailey accidentally cuts him off. "And I have a shit-ton of tapes, I'm almost sure I've doubled up on The Clash. I could bring it in tomorrow if you want." Bailey shrugs casually.
"Seriously? Wow, yeah! Are you sure? That would be... super cool. My favourite is Should I Stay or Should I Go." Will thanks her gratefully.
"Yeah, yeah for sure, no problem." Bailey glances at her orange Casio watch, that resides loosely on her left wrist. She holds down the small silver disk that allows the face of the watch to light up in a mysterious green colour. The time reads 9:46pm. Bailey's eyebrows raise subtlety. "Shit man, it's getting late, your mom's probably waiting up for you." Will swings his leg around the bike, mounting it carefully. He waits on his tiptoes to say goodbye.
"See you tomorrow then," Will waves, and as he travels closer to the centre to the street, his face grows visible in the dim glow of the streetlight, his eyes now concentrated on his direction of travel. Toto leaps suddenly from Bailey's cradling arms, darting over to the door. Bailey frowns only slightly in confusion at the tabby's sudden mood change. Just moments before he had been clutching safely onto her, and now he was trotting over to the front door in a panicked frenzy.
"Chill it," Bailey laughs at the cat. "You're more excited than me to go back into that house,"she snickers. Quickly and skilfully, she throws the lid of the bin upwards, manoeuvring the trash through the square vessel, before following Toto to the door. "I'm gunna let you in this once, but you gotta promise to leave as soon as I ask, ok?"
Bailey and Will were an unlikely pair, and though Bailey wouldn't necessarily describe Will as any sort of close friend, he was certainly a good companion to have. She wasn't sure he wanted to be her friend, and she wasn't drawn to the idea of hanging out with him. Their parents had been rather cordial with each other when the two were toddlers, sparking an alliance between the two families. However, when relationships began to crumble within the marriages, it put a strain on any association Bailey and Will had at school. Their conversations with one another began to fade, until, eventually, any recognition began to simmer down, and they adventured their separate ways. They were still able to rekindle a slight amity with one another every now and then.
Three things then conquer in unison: Bailey opens the door with an uneasy click, rusty metal scratching upon rusty metal. Meanwhile, a crackle and buzz exerts from the hallway light above, momentarily cloaking the doorway in a brief shadow, before the electricity resurges, and light returns. This consecutive pair of events send Toto spiralling over the edge of sanity. The cat bounds into the kitchen, and leaps keenly onto the countertop, tilting his head so he can get a better look out of the fogged-up window. Mimicking his actions, Bailey chases after him, keen to see what has grasped his attention so rapidly.
The radio warbles out a tune, the words only just distinct amongst the sputtering static. Nevertheless, Bailey doesn't fail to mumble along to the soft and seemingly meaningless words of Bruce Spingsteen's 'Born to Run'.
'Oh baby, this town rips the bones from your back, it's a death trap, it's a suicide rap,
We gotta get out while we're young, 'cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run'
An almost incoherent crash sounds from outside, startling both Bailey and Toto, the latter of whom arches his back in the most frightening of ways. "Dude!" Bailey whispers exasperatedly. "What is up with you, man? You need to take a chill pill and some seriously deep breaths. Ok?" She runs a tender hand along the tabby's back, attempting unsuccessfully to settle the poor creature. "We probably just forgot to pay the electric bill, just like last month, alright? I mean the lights were pretty dodgy anyway, it's probably nothing."
And then the radio shuts off. Along with the already darkening overhead lights, the television in the living room, even the dainty fairy lights, that are strung up and left forgotten in the corner, flicker out and die. Instead each of the power sources is replaced with a whirring of static, that seems to get louder, louder, louder. So much so that Bailey has to lift her hands to her ears. Her heart thrums against her ribcage, some sort of sick suspicion crawling into her chest — one she can't quite place her finger on.
Lights flash, hearts beat, cat seethes, static screeches.
Stop.
That one word is prominent in her head. Bailey can't take the overwhelming nature of what is happening, her breathing increases, her fingers clutch onto the sides of her cheeks, as though it is the only grip she has in the realm of this universe left and—
Silence.
Everything springs back into action, like nothing ever changed, as though what just took place was simply a common occurrence. Bailey can hear movement upstairs, presumably Victoria — the second oldest Lefay sister — who's the only one aside from Bailey that's ever conscious at this time of night. Bailey's brain calls for her legs to make a move and yet... nothing happens, she is glued to her space in the kitchen. She knows there is probably a rational explanation as to why what just happened happened. But she has a different feeling about this. Maybe it's just the buzz that proceeds to relentlessly echo around her head, or maybe there's more to it.
'The highways jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive,
Well everyone's on the run tonight, but there's nowhere left to hide'
It takes a moment or two for Bailey to snap out of it, her shoulders slumping as the tension eases, and her eyes coming to life once more. It's nothing. She tells herself. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Or is it something? She doesn't know, but shrugs it off, slipping her cold hands into her pockets, and making her nightly move towards the living room. The sound of the radio is still faint, but not yet indistinguishable.
'We're gonna get to that place, where we really want to go and we'll walk in the sun,
But till then, tramps like us, baby we were born to run...'
🎧 •°. *࿐
6563 WORDS
first chapter woohoo!!