Emilee Blackwell was something of an enigma - this being said in the less stereotypical way possible. She was a girl from a broken home that was once magazine worthy, but fell on hard times and harder drugs. She was a girl that pretended she was something more than the daughter of a white trash family broken down by society. She was a girl that had packed her bags weeks before her eighteenth birthday.
There were many versions of Emilee: the toothy smiling, sarcastic waitress everyone doted upon because of her work ethic, the tougher side of herself that smoked and wore her hair in knotted curls, and then herself - the true Emilee that was beginning to fade. This was the Emilee that curled up with her rescued cotton ball of a kitten on her cheap, well-loved laptop, nabbing wifi from her neighbors and projecting pirated movies; always with tricks up her sleeve and a never-ending love for making people laugh. This was the Emilee that learned how to throw knives and curl her mouth into a sneer. This was the Emilee that had to feel the bite of the first few inhales of acrid cigarette smoke she'd taken.
This was the Emilee that took on the suffering of her alter egos, and this was the strongest Emilee.
On this crisp, sunset painted autumn evening, Emilee was seated outside on break, her back against the building and her lips parted bleakly, gaze wisping over the opaque cloud of vapor that came from her pursed lips, signaling the true end of summer. The quaint little diner she worked at was tame - rush hour had passed mere minutes ago, leaving her to rest her feet and check her phone for messages from fake friends and overpriced, over-hyped universities she would never even go visit.
It had been a pleasant shift - she'd received a twenty dollar tip for being so pleasant and smiley, and only one person had left their number in place of a cash tip. Despite this, Emilee was worn down. Her face was freshly blotted with a paper towel, leaving her under eyes slightly sunken and ringed with crescent bruise-like marks from lack of sleep. Working back-to-back shifts broke her down, leaving her running on fumes and strongly brewed coffee.
She nursed a to-go cup of something pumpkin-y in her hands, the smell burning her nostrils pleasantly with its spicy aroma. She bounced her foot on the concrete ground idly, people-watching with slitted eyes, mouth quirked upward into a ghost of a smile that never faded, not even when a group of gangly early-twenties men bounded up to the door, jostling each other and casting her short, wayward glances as they barreled through the door, the bell hung above the door chiming merrily, signaling the end of her break.
Emilee stood in a flurry, scooping up her cup of coffee and her small military-styled bag, strung over her shoulder like it was something made for Fashion Week. She caught the door as the boys strolled in and forced her way past them, murmuring a hushed 'excuse me' as she headed over to refill someone's coffee pot.
As she walked, tiny wisps of baby hairs tumbled out of her tidy, dusty blonde bun, framing her steeply angled, pale face. She grinned and cocked her head at the elderly couple who'd gestured for her return. "Hi - youse' all doing all right?" She chit-chatted, not really listening for a response as she lifted the coffee pot. A look of panic washed over her face, and she quickly slammed it back down onto the tiny, stained oak table, rattling dishes as well as the couple. "Uh - shoot, I--" She lowered her head and mouthed a few swears, biting her tongue as she addressed them. "...I apologize. Busy day. I wasn't thinking."
A gnarled hand reached out to pat her arm. "Oh, hon! I thought you knew the pot was still hot. Go on - wash your hand under cold water." She waved her off in a way that made it clear it was not a request.
Emilee, shell shocked, nodded numbly and murmured another apology before bustling off, making a beeline for the bathroom, nudging past people apologetically, the focus on her throbbing hand more than her surroundings. She hadn't pulled a stunt like that since she'd been in orientation her sophomore year of high school. She'd let a stack of plates topple over during her training with a 40-year-strong employee.
She had a bad feeling about the rest of her shift. It was a sinking sort of feeling that kept nagging at her. She had been fine for the past few weeks of living on her own, so why was the stress just now trampling her?
She tried to avoid thinking about it on her way toward the bathroom, walking with little care for her surroundings, more keen on finishing out her last hour of work and going home to sleep.
There were many versions of Emilee: the toothy smiling, sarcastic waitress everyone doted upon because of her work ethic, the tougher side of herself that smoked and wore her hair in knotted curls, and then herself - the true Emilee that was beginning to fade. This was the Emilee that curled up with her rescued cotton ball of a kitten on her cheap, well-loved laptop, nabbing wifi from her neighbors and projecting pirated movies; always with tricks up her sleeve and a never-ending love for making people laugh. This was the Emilee that learned how to throw knives and curl her mouth into a sneer. This was the Emilee that had to feel the bite of the first few inhales of acrid cigarette smoke she'd taken.
This was the Emilee that took on the suffering of her alter egos, and this was the strongest Emilee.
On this crisp, sunset painted autumn evening, Emilee was seated outside on break, her back against the building and her lips parted bleakly, gaze wisping over the opaque cloud of vapor that came from her pursed lips, signaling the true end of summer. The quaint little diner she worked at was tame - rush hour had passed mere minutes ago, leaving her to rest her feet and check her phone for messages from fake friends and overpriced, over-hyped universities she would never even go visit.
It had been a pleasant shift - she'd received a twenty dollar tip for being so pleasant and smiley, and only one person had left their number in place of a cash tip. Despite this, Emilee was worn down. Her face was freshly blotted with a paper towel, leaving her under eyes slightly sunken and ringed with crescent bruise-like marks from lack of sleep. Working back-to-back shifts broke her down, leaving her running on fumes and strongly brewed coffee.
She nursed a to-go cup of something pumpkin-y in her hands, the smell burning her nostrils pleasantly with its spicy aroma. She bounced her foot on the concrete ground idly, people-watching with slitted eyes, mouth quirked upward into a ghost of a smile that never faded, not even when a group of gangly early-twenties men bounded up to the door, jostling each other and casting her short, wayward glances as they barreled through the door, the bell hung above the door chiming merrily, signaling the end of her break.
Emilee stood in a flurry, scooping up her cup of coffee and her small military-styled bag, strung over her shoulder like it was something made for Fashion Week. She caught the door as the boys strolled in and forced her way past them, murmuring a hushed 'excuse me' as she headed over to refill someone's coffee pot.
As she walked, tiny wisps of baby hairs tumbled out of her tidy, dusty blonde bun, framing her steeply angled, pale face. She grinned and cocked her head at the elderly couple who'd gestured for her return. "Hi - youse' all doing all right?" She chit-chatted, not really listening for a response as she lifted the coffee pot. A look of panic washed over her face, and she quickly slammed it back down onto the tiny, stained oak table, rattling dishes as well as the couple. "Uh - shoot, I--" She lowered her head and mouthed a few swears, biting her tongue as she addressed them. "...I apologize. Busy day. I wasn't thinking."
A gnarled hand reached out to pat her arm. "Oh, hon! I thought you knew the pot was still hot. Go on - wash your hand under cold water." She waved her off in a way that made it clear it was not a request.
Emilee, shell shocked, nodded numbly and murmured another apology before bustling off, making a beeline for the bathroom, nudging past people apologetically, the focus on her throbbing hand more than her surroundings. She hadn't pulled a stunt like that since she'd been in orientation her sophomore year of high school. She'd let a stack of plates topple over during her training with a 40-year-strong employee.
She had a bad feeling about the rest of her shift. It was a sinking sort of feeling that kept nagging at her. She had been fine for the past few weeks of living on her own, so why was the stress just now trampling her?
She tried to avoid thinking about it on her way toward the bathroom, walking with little care for her surroundings, more keen on finishing out her last hour of work and going home to sleep.
October 12th, 2015 at 03:42am