OKAY, IT’S HERE. I wrote this during an art history lecture, don’t tell my teacher. or my mom. ANY WAY, part three is a good one (i think) and I hope you enjoy it very much. So far we’ve got a girl who’s a big fan of corn and a boy who’s driving around in a nasty pick up truck. Pretty exciting stuff I would say. But anyway, have a good read, lemme know what you think in the comments and I’ll talk to y’all soon. 🙂
She is tired of waiting. It’s been 15 minutes since he pulled over. 15 minutes of her ears bleeding. 15 minutes of potato chips. She is, quite frankly, extremely disappointed and bored with these sudden turn of events. She had thought he would maybe come up to the house but now. She thinks he’ll just sit there until he runs out of chips. Which will be for a long while because it seems his entire back seat is filled with them. Trouble must truly be on vacation.
It’s been dark for hours but she hasn’t turned on the lights. She never does, the lights flicker mysteriously and shadows attack her mind with monsters. Even if Trouble is gone, their offspring still stay present. Mischief and Inconvenience and Disorder still reign on a free leash. However, it seems the student never surpass the master. Plus it wasn’t her house, she was just borrowing
She can fix the truck. It is her possession after all. Or was. She still doesn’t know if the truck took to any owner at all. Judging from its behavior at the present moment, she guesses no. She could fix the truck if he just stepped out for a couple of minutes. 12 and a half to be technical if muscle memory is kind to her like it has been in the past. He just needs to move, which he hasn’t.
So she is a little bit bothered. She doesn’t have time to deal with lazy boys. Well, technically she does. But, she doesn’t want to have time to deal with lazy boys.
She sits in the dark as the wind scratches at the house, searching for loose ends and thoughts. It awakes the monster and it softly complains, it has been a young one for it was forever whining. She goes to the fridge and pulls out the oranges she had gotten for him, or her. She still isn’t certain which it is. She cuts them into thin slices, taking off the peels and setting them on a plate. She walks up the flight of stairs, they creak and croak under her weight and the pictures on the walls watch her as she goes. She sets the plate on the landing next to the heating grate and waits for a moment, seeing if it’ll come out while she’s watching. Something hisses sharp and stern in the from within the walls and she takes the hint and goes back down the stairs. She doesn’t look back, if she’s completely honest, the creature has grown on her. And she would like for it to trust it.
As she approaches the foot of the stairs she hears the clicking of a lock and she goes to sit down at the table. She’s ready for the waiting to be over.
15 minutes pass as the lock is undone. 15 minutes is a very short passing of time in the grand scheme of things. 15 pass and then.
The boy stumbles in, his hair styled by the wind and his eyes wide with fear. He stares at her, his mouth stumbling over itself as he thinks of a lie that will cover the deed he’s done. Breaking and entering is punishable by the law in this country she thinks.
“Oh I, um, sorry, I was-” He’s coming up with nothing, she wants to give him another chance. His words have a European accent, maybe Scottish or Swedish. She is never able to place accents.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” She sighs, “Took you forever.”
He’s the worst at picking locks. The absolute worst. The only reason he knows how is because he always lost his keys so a friend taught him how. Said friend was legendary at picking locks. He also had sets of other various skills that were not common to have. He knew morse code, brail, sign language, how to train a rat to walk a tightrope, etc, etc. Either way, his friend was definitely skilled while he himself was indefinitely not.
Takes him at least 15 minutes. And the entire time the wind tries to steal him by his hair. He knows the wind likes loose ends but he had never considered himself one. He is freezing, his hands shaking the two metal pins out of hands every now again, his lips trembling the curse words out his mouth more often. Then the lock turns and the door opens and the dark meets him. How is it darker in the house than it is in the night? He steps inside and silence yawns at him. He figures this is a good thing, the house is empty. If someone was home, he’d be in a lot of trouble.
He turns to the door frame next to him and finds that his previous wish was wrong. Someone is most defnietly home. He freezes, tries to bring up a lie, instead brings up stutters.
“Oh I, um, sorry, I was-” It’s a girl, or woman, well, she looks 17 does that count as a woman? He’s 17 and he’s certain he doesn’t count as a man. Her face is odd, all unsymmetrical and sharp. Like a picasso painting. Her eyes aren’t the same colors, brown and green. Each so intense he wants to stop breathing. Her lips are thin and tight, reminding him of his mother.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” She sighs, “Took you forever.”
“I- what?” He blinks rapidly. “Waiting for me? Do I know you?”
“Terra,” She talks like words are foreign, she has an accent he can’t place and he’s usually great at placing accents. “My name is Terra, now you know me.”
“That’s… not how that works,” He murmurs, unsure of why he is still here. The truck is surely better than this house. “Mine’s Killian…”
Now, why would he say that? He didn’t even use a fake name. She is sitting down but it still seems like she has the upper hand, the higher ground of the situation. It still seems like she has the power.
“Oh. Well. I’ve been waiting for you. You’re supposed to help me with something.” She looks annoyed. But not with him, which is more confusing than anything else in this situation.
“Um… I was just looking for a place to sleep… I don’t think I can really help with much. I’m virtually useless.” His words come out slow, the whole situation so confusing and unnerving. ‘I’ve been waiting for you?’ He was expecting something along the lines of, ‘get out of my house,’ or, ‘I’m going to shoot you. Or something. Not this. This is what the feeling he had at the gas station had been warning him about. This is what it had been leading up to. “I should probably go…”
“You’re just going to come back,” She murmurs, “Might as well not waste your time.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
The truck stopped screaming.