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“One, two, three, four, five,” she sings slowly on a whisper, pouring the gasoline-type liquid over the rug, “once I caught a fish alive.”
The scent is foul, it makes her feel dizzy, but she continues pouring the translucent orange fluid over the blood-stained cream fur beneath her feet. She doesn’t stop until the letters of her name are perfectly formed, and then adds a little curl to the line that crosses the top of the T.
“Six… seven…” She lights a match; the orange glow flickers across her features in the dark room. Glug, glug, glug can be heard as the gasoline spills from the canister that she simply dropped.
“Eight… nine… ten.”
Her breath leaves her on a shudder and her animal sitting by her feet whimpers impatiently, blood dripping from his mouth and onto her shoe.
“This is now and that was then.”
The match falls from between her fingers and she feels a strong whoosh of heat as the rug takes light in an instant.
“This place is cute.”
Cute.
If I hear that word again, I might just make cute with my fist and plant it in her—
“Oh lord, and that salon.” Carol, my personal social worker/babysitter clucks her tongue, her eyes sparkle with delight. “Although a small town like this, I doubt they’re very good.”
“You’re too judgmental,” I remind her. “And extremely unprofessional.”
But then again, she’s on my uncle’s payroll. Of course she’s going to be unprofessional. He wants me under his thumb, not under the care of the state.
I’m too much of a wild card.
“And you’re a good-for-nothing little brat who doesn’t know how good she has it.” She says this in a sickly-sweet voice. If one didn’t understand American, one would think she was talking to me in such a loving manner.
“Fuck you.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my feet so they rest on her precious dashboard. She growls at me, but I don’t remove them this time. “Go find a bridge and drive off it.”
“So aggressive.” She clicks the blinker on and turns the car down a long road that seems to go on forever. It’s suburbia hell. Trees line the sidewalks; their green leaves shadow the too wide road.
Almost every house is the same size. This is fucking horrible.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” I want her to turn around and laugh at this cruel joke she’s pulled.
I wish I’d asked questions on the way. I wish I’d paid attention to the GPS.
“Carol?”
She pulls down another road which is basically the same as the road before except it isn’t never ending. It’s a cul-de-sac. Blossoms float through the air from the trees like confetti. It’s too pretty. I don’t like it.
We’re in the wrong place.
I press the button on the GPS and groan when I see that we’re supposed to stop at the house she’s now pulling into.
There are so many flowers and ornaments and even a little fountain.
The lawn is mowed.
There’s a lawn in the front yard.
There’s a front yard in front of the house.
This… this is a house.
I’ve not lived in a house for so long. So much space. No bars on the windows.
“I don’t belong here,” I say as Carol pulls up behind a black SUV with tinted windows. “I’m not getting out of this car.”
“You will get out of this car.” Carol seems far too sure of this. I’m wondering what she has up her sleeve. She suddenly looks really smug. She’s not attractive enough to be smug. It makes her pointy features crinkle at the edges. Her foundation has clogged those edges and crinkles.
Gross.
The dark red front door surrounded by a white frame and frosted glass panels doesn’t open. Instead the white door on the side of the building opens. The door behind the low fence where a large, slobbering, long-coated ginger dog now barks at us openly. It scrambles back down and to its owners who are exiting the house.
Carol leaves the car and closes the door behind her. I remain defiant in my seat as she moves towards them and greets them with a handshake each.
The woman is average height, her brown hair is clipped back from her face which is, dare I say, quite pretty considering the fact she must be in her forties.
Ancient.
She’s even wearing a fucking apron that looks to be spattered with flour and jam.
Stepford wife. Definitely.
The guy that has his hand on the small of her back is tense. His posture and body are rigid. His chest is huge, his arms too.
Military. I don’t need to even speak to him to know it. The scar that cuts across his lip and the way he holds himself practically screams of army knowledge.
His eyes flick to me in the car. They hover on mine curiously, piercing me with a watery blue stare.
I don’t look away. Looking away is a sign of weakness. That’s why they’ve brought me here. To keep me under the watchful eye of yet another government puppet.
