Page 6 of His Big Bad Stick

This was a girl who lived in my house and was kind of like a stepsister to me for about ten minutes before her mother and my father split up.

I haven’t seen her since… well…

I still want to yell at her. For a lot of reasons.

I haven’t said a word yet. Maybe for good reason.

Abrielle has blood all over her.

3

Abrielle

THE PAST PART

I’m sitting at my desk. The one with the front left leg being held up by some old magazines promising happiness, money, and a quiz about sex.

Dumb enough for me, that word still makes me blush a little.

No reason for it though.

Just something about those three letters put together.

Natural? Taboo? Fun?

I drip my paintbrush into a cobalt blue color I made on my own.

As I stroke what I hope to be a serene kind of sky, my little desk lamp I got for Christmas turns out.

First thing I do is click the button a few dozen times, as though that’s going to magically fix it.

I could go scrounge around for another light bulb.

Why bother?

I already know what this means…

I stand from the squeaky chair and walk to my bedroom light switch and flick it up.

No lights, Abrielle.

“Shit,” I call out.

I hate being in the dark, even if it’s not dark outside yet.

I emerge from my room like a kidnap victim trying to escape a house of hell.

Inching down the hallway of our small apartment.

My first stop is the kitchen. To the fridge.

Not for a snack though.

The fridge is never full.

Last time it was full was about six months ago when Mom slept around with that married car salesman. She threatened to tell his wife unless he bought us groceries. And Mom a diamond necklace.

From my understanding and upbringing, true love comes in the form of intense blackmail and lasts about three weeks. Then it’s off to the next lover.

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