Danger Days

Chapter Twelve

Plastic found a package of hand wipes in a drawer of the ugly dresser, and used them to clean most of the blood of her arms and clothes. Then she painted the dresser, using the last of the paint. There was still the issue of the gross bedsheets, but hey, you can't win 'em all.

Plastic pulled the pictures off the corkboard and flopped down with them, not sure if she should frown or smile. One had a short dog in it, that was white, brown and black. It was caked with mud, but Plastic vaugely remembered it's name. Meathead, she thought. It had died when she was younger.

She shivered, then hung up the pictures. Something under the bed caught her eye.

She got down on the floor and fished it out. It was a large maroon sweater. She shook off the dust and slipped it on. The cold faded, and was replaced with calm. It smelled like her childhood.

So maybe it didn't go with her color scheme. Who cared, honestly?

Plastic kneeled down again and pulled a large plastic box from under the bed. She opened it, and was pleasently surprised with lots and lots of different colored yarn, and some needles. She remembered how much her mother loved knitting, even if she never finished anything.

She swiped around again, grabbing something that felt like leather. She pulled, and out came a guitar case.

Her breath hitched in her throat. It was her dad's guitar. Memories fogged Plastic's head. She didn't remember much about her father, only that he loved guitar, cars, and that he had a scruffy brown beard dotted with white hairs.

Plastic opened the case (with only moderate difficulty), and stared down at the faded wooden guitar with sorrowful eyes.

Hesitantly, Plastic reached out a hand and touched the strings. The sound coming from it wasn't unpleasent, but it certainly wasn't musical. Plastic was more of a singer, if anything.

She looked under the bed once more, and one more thing caught her eye.

She pulled it out, and was shocked with a leather jacket, a little big for her, but she suspected it belonged to her mother.

Sure enough, it smelled like her. It didn't have a hood, but it was much warmer than the measly sweater that Plastic had owned before.

Plastic hesitated, then decided it was better to be safe then sorry, and glanced under the bed once more.

She let out a small gasp when there was one more thing. Had it been there a moment ago? Who cared.

She pulled it out, and was greeted with yet another jacket. This one was dark green, and came down almost to her knees. The inside was a soft, fuzzy camo. When she shedded the leather to put it on, she was shocked when she was greeted with a smell unlike her mother's.

It smelled like irish spring soap, and motor oil. It was incredibly familiar, but Plastic couldn't place it. Was it her father? She squeezed her eyes shut and took another deep breath, trying to match what she remembered of her father to this scent. Something clicked. Yup, it was him.

She stood and buttoned it closed, then rolled up the sleeves a bit so she could use her hands. Then she folded up the others and slipped them into an empty drawer. This jacket would do for now.