Page 2 of Shadowed Fate

The water sputters and coughs before flowing steadily. I wash my hands, watching as jet-black tendrils swirl down the drain. The routine is soothing.

Hands clean, I dry them on a striped linen tea towel. The early sunlight shines over the clutter of my life. Stacks of sketchbooks, tin cans with the labels removed holding pencils and sticks of willow charcoal, jars of jam on kitchen shelves, a second-hand wood table with one placemat and a small vase of wildflowers in the center, a small bookcase stuffed with books. It’s not much, but it’s mine.

I need some air, so I step outside for a minute, inhaling deeply. A robin hops along the fence, eyeing me curiously. A rustle of leaves draws my attention to a squirrel running across the grass. The tightness in my shoulders eases. Here, surrounded by life, I can almost forget the darkness that haunts me. The autumn air feels good—I close my eyes and breathe in deeply.

I reluctantly turn back inside, knowing I need to get ready for the day. The kettle whistles, and I drop a teabag into my favorite teal blue mug, the scent of Earl Grey filling the air after I pour the hot water on top. While it steeps, I pop a slice of bread into the toaster.

The cupboard creaks as I reach for a jar of blackberry jam, licking the spoon before putting it in the sink. Tea and toast made, I carry both to the kitchen table, enjoying the feeling of the sun through the window on me as I eat. I forgot to have supper last night; the pain in my head was too intense, so I finish quickly, hunger finally kicking in now that my headache is gone.

With breakfast done, I head to my tiny bedroom. I slip into my uniform for my job at the hardware store, khaki pants and a scratchy polo shirt. I add my favorite yellow knit cardigan, and it feels protective, its worn softness a barrier.

I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pass. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes, hair a wild, dark tangle. I look away quickly. No use dwelling on what can't be changed.

Locking the door behind me, I set off down the familiar lane to town, my feet crunching on pebbles.

I feel a buzz in my pocket and fish out my phone, smiling when I see Donal's name on the screen. I tap to open the message, hope flickering in my chest.

The hope dies as quickly as it sparked. Donal's message glows on the screen:

“Can’t make it tonight”

I stare at the text, my fingers hovering over the keys. What should I say? What can I say? It's not the first time he's cancelled, not even the tenth.

The breeze picks up, rustling the leaves. A raven's loud, harsh caw breaks the morning quiet, and I look up to see it perched on a nearby branch, its black eyes fixed on me.

I pocket my phone without responding. What's the point? Donal’s made it clear I’m not worthy of even a tired excuse.

The raven takes flight, disappearing into the canopy above. I watch it go. How easy it must be to simply fly away from everything. I force my feet to move, one step after another.

I’m at the hardware store in no time, and I barely remember the rest of the walk. I push open the door, the familiar jingle of the bell above my head announcing my arrival. The scent of wood and metal fills my nostrils as I step inside, and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the fluorescent light. It’s then that I become acutely aware of the faces that turn to me.

Mrs. Robertson— my fourth grade teacher— glances up then quickly averts her gaze, pretending to examine a row of paint swatches. An older man, browsing through power tools, suddenly finds the floor fascinating.

I force my face to remain neutral. I've had years of practice. I make my way to the counter, steeling myself for the inevitable.

“You’re late,” my Uncle John says.

“I still have ten minutes before my shift starts.”

“When I gave you this job, I told you to be here fifteen minutes early for every shift. You can stay late and make it up to me.”

I sigh. There’s no point in arguing.

I never knew my birth parents, and my uncle is the older brother of the man who adopted me with his wife, after I was orphaned. Uncle John and Janice took me in after my adoptive parents died when I was five. I barely remember my adoptive parents, and I mostly remember them from photographs now.

Uncle John and Aunt Janice provided food, a roof over my head, and clothes to wear…but never love. Uncle John has made it very clear that I’m tolerated, but only just. I think if the guilt didn’t make him worry about going to hell, he’d never have agreed to raise me.

I make my way to the gardening section to start organizing and tidying the displays.

"You can’t wear that on shift," he says as I walk by him. He points to my yellow cardigan.

I shrug it off.

The whispers drift from the aisles. I'm used to being the topic of hushed conversations. It has been this way since I was a child—the strange girl who says strange things. The girl who talked about seeing shadows come to life. This town is superstitious, and there’s something disturbing about a child who loses not just one, but two, sets of parents—something dark. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, their words echo in my mind louder than my own thoughts.

I go to put my sweater in the staff room, my face a blank mask, betraying nothing.

Another day, another moment just trying to get through.

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