FrancisAge 10 - 11 years ago
Father picked me up from the warehouse this morning.
We were down to a handful of products remaining.
I wasn’t sure when I started thinking of them that way.
That’s what Rafa always called them, anyway.
But I didn’t have to think about them at all, because I was going home.
It was the end of August, and while Mikhael drove the long roads through West Barrett back to our house, Father and I sat in the back.
He was quiet, mostly tapping out a message, email, or something on his phone.
I stared out the window. As we pulled off the big road and onto our street, which dead-ended in our house, he finally said, “Francis,” but he only wanted to remind me of my responsibilities. The ones I would never forget now.
“Your mother and sister can never know about the warehouse.”
“Why?” I asked, so quietly, all while praying it didn’t land me back in the dark.
“Because it could kill them. Do you want that to happen, Francis?”
“No!” I croaked. Father simply nodded and returned his attention to the cell phone in his hand, finishing off whatever he was typing and sliding the thing into his pants’ pocket just in time for the car to stop.
Father got out first. I took my time, sliding across the leather seats.
The sight of my house, the white stone, the trees and hedges that lined the driveway, all looked too neat, too tidy for me.
I felt sticky and sweaty. Like the dirt of the warehouse floors stuck to my skin, and it itched.
I wanted to take a bath, but instead, my father invited me to join him on the front steps where we watched the driveway.
“Your mother and sister will be here any minute.”
He was right. Two minutes later, another town car pulled in behind Mikhael’s. The back doors opened, and Mother and Antoinette got out. My sister dashed around the car, reaching for Mother’s hand and holding it tight, as they walked towards us.
I watched every step. Two summers training with Rafa had taught me how important it is to pay attention, to watch.
Antoinette smiled up at our mother. She didn’t look real.
Like an angel, the same as my brown-haired angel, the way she floated beside our mother.
There was no heaviness to weigh her down.
There was no dungeon in her summer. No screams. No cages.
I shuddered and focused more on Antoinette, driving my memories of the last eight weeks away.
Beside me, our father watched her, too. A faint smile on his normally stern face.
“Perfect.” He whispered darkly. He wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t say anything. But she was. He was right, again. As always.
She was perfect, but for the first time, I didn’t feel any joy at seeing my sister. All that happiness, that light, that perfection. I wanted it. I wanted to take it. And ruin it.
They climbed the steps to join us. Antoinette released our mother’s hand and reached out to me, calling me by the same nickname she always had, “Franny,”
Something about it made my lip curl. Or maybe she saw the dirt of the warehouse on me, too.
Because instead of coming closer, she stepped back into our mother’s side.
Her smile dimmed, again, reminding me of the brown-haired girl in the cage.
Except, in my imagination, it wasn’t the brown-haired girl anymore.
It was Antoinette holding my hand through the bars.
She was as ruined as me. I wasn’t alone in the dark.
My sister was there, too. It was where we both belonged. Together in the dark. Ruined.