Status: Working on it :) Comment/reccomend pretty please it makes me more inclined to write. :)
Would You Bargain With Hell?
Getting out
Mariette pulled up to the gate before my house. The wrought iron was a stark contrast to the pale pavement leading to the mansion. Mariette’s car was small and purple, her radio station locked on classic rock. She looked at me, “What’s the code dear?”
“Oh, sorry. Its 37378.”
Mariette punched the numbers with her stubby fingers and dark red letters ran across the small screen. She shook her head and punched in again. Same result, so she pushed down the intercom button.
A few minutes later my father’s voice came through the box.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Tamerlane, you left your daughter at my fundraiser, Ha-ha, what a jest. Can I drop her off?” Mariette chuckled.
“Yes of course, and yes it is droll.” He cackled a hideous laugh.
The gate drew open and Miss Munster pulled up. The house was grand, white and clean. Columns held up the second floor balcony. It was lavish and extravagant. A large gold sign hung from the balcony that said “Tamerlane.”
Miss Munster pulled me up to the porch, where my father stood waiting. He smiled and I got out of Mariette’s car waving a solemn good bye
.
I felt him behind me. I felt his silent scowl, his unreadable face. He was shadowed as he held open the door.
I shook my head walking into the foyer. “If you wanted me dead there’s a lot of easier ways you could have done it!” My voice rose before I could do anything about it. I bit my lip. “I’m sorry.”
Too late. My mother came dashing down the stairs, her stilettos tittering on the stones floor. She neared me, her blonde hair was in a bun on her head and she donned night clothes.
She got as close to me as she could, her nose inches away. I could smell her faint perfume; see every tiny blemish and imperfection in her face.
“You selfish pig, how dare you raise your voice to my husband!” She spit. “We welcome you into our house, our beautiful house, and you stomp right on our kindness. Would you rather be back in that miserable filthy townhome crowded with little kids? Need we speak about you verbally abusing me at the fundraiser! How ignorant must you be? I’m trying my hardest to make a name for you out there, Penelope Tamerlane, what a beautiful name that is. Rayder Tamerlane sounds like a truck-stop hooker. Enough! To your room.”
I nodded and walked slowly up the stairs, wiping away the spit from my lips. Through all the corridor, in the last corner of the house was a small room, nothing compared to my room at the lake house. It was an old broom closet, with a mattress on the floor. The only thing new in it was of course the intercom, which is my family’s favorite mode of speaking.
The room smelled of mildew, and something is growing in the corner. The shelves are left and I use them as dressers. There is a light but it is dim. The mattress is old and damp from the humid air. Every couple of days one of the maids changes my sheets.
I dropped onto my mattress and wiped a tear from my eyes. I stared at the ceiling, black in the night. I imagined stars and planets and places beyond here. Places beyond this place, this house. I imagined myself smiling, a real true smile. Something I’m sure would feel foreign to me now.
Maybe this is for the best, I thought, maybe I’m paying my real parents debts. I need to be strong. After hours of thoughts like that I knew I needed to get out at least for a little bit. I cracked open my door and walked to the room across the hall, the spare room where Grace stores all her junk. Antiques she bought at auctions or gifts from family sponsors were stacked hap-hazardly.
No one went in here, I hadn’t even for a while, but I knew there was something I needed in there, a window.
I climbed over a billiards table and through a stack of old chairs before I came to the window, it hesitated to open as it had crusted shut. I forced with all my might and it finally opened. I looked out. I was on the first floor there was no real drop. I did some awkward maneuvers to get myself into the window and I dropped.
The cool autumn air brushing my hair and I landed with a crinkly thud in the leaves. I walked mindlessly and hopped over the gate. I followed the road knowing exactly where I was going. The bridge.
“Oh, sorry. Its 37378.”
Mariette punched the numbers with her stubby fingers and dark red letters ran across the small screen. She shook her head and punched in again. Same result, so she pushed down the intercom button.
A few minutes later my father’s voice came through the box.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Tamerlane, you left your daughter at my fundraiser, Ha-ha, what a jest. Can I drop her off?” Mariette chuckled.
“Yes of course, and yes it is droll.” He cackled a hideous laugh.
The gate drew open and Miss Munster pulled up. The house was grand, white and clean. Columns held up the second floor balcony. It was lavish and extravagant. A large gold sign hung from the balcony that said “Tamerlane.”
Miss Munster pulled me up to the porch, where my father stood waiting. He smiled and I got out of Mariette’s car waving a solemn good bye
.
I felt him behind me. I felt his silent scowl, his unreadable face. He was shadowed as he held open the door.
I shook my head walking into the foyer. “If you wanted me dead there’s a lot of easier ways you could have done it!” My voice rose before I could do anything about it. I bit my lip. “I’m sorry.”
Too late. My mother came dashing down the stairs, her stilettos tittering on the stones floor. She neared me, her blonde hair was in a bun on her head and she donned night clothes.
She got as close to me as she could, her nose inches away. I could smell her faint perfume; see every tiny blemish and imperfection in her face.
“You selfish pig, how dare you raise your voice to my husband!” She spit. “We welcome you into our house, our beautiful house, and you stomp right on our kindness. Would you rather be back in that miserable filthy townhome crowded with little kids? Need we speak about you verbally abusing me at the fundraiser! How ignorant must you be? I’m trying my hardest to make a name for you out there, Penelope Tamerlane, what a beautiful name that is. Rayder Tamerlane sounds like a truck-stop hooker. Enough! To your room.”
I nodded and walked slowly up the stairs, wiping away the spit from my lips. Through all the corridor, in the last corner of the house was a small room, nothing compared to my room at the lake house. It was an old broom closet, with a mattress on the floor. The only thing new in it was of course the intercom, which is my family’s favorite mode of speaking.
The room smelled of mildew, and something is growing in the corner. The shelves are left and I use them as dressers. There is a light but it is dim. The mattress is old and damp from the humid air. Every couple of days one of the maids changes my sheets.
I dropped onto my mattress and wiped a tear from my eyes. I stared at the ceiling, black in the night. I imagined stars and planets and places beyond here. Places beyond this place, this house. I imagined myself smiling, a real true smile. Something I’m sure would feel foreign to me now.
Maybe this is for the best, I thought, maybe I’m paying my real parents debts. I need to be strong. After hours of thoughts like that I knew I needed to get out at least for a little bit. I cracked open my door and walked to the room across the hall, the spare room where Grace stores all her junk. Antiques she bought at auctions or gifts from family sponsors were stacked hap-hazardly.
No one went in here, I hadn’t even for a while, but I knew there was something I needed in there, a window.
I climbed over a billiards table and through a stack of old chairs before I came to the window, it hesitated to open as it had crusted shut. I forced with all my might and it finally opened. I looked out. I was on the first floor there was no real drop. I did some awkward maneuvers to get myself into the window and I dropped.
The cool autumn air brushing my hair and I landed with a crinkly thud in the leaves. I walked mindlessly and hopped over the gate. I followed the road knowing exactly where I was going. The bridge.