Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 3 [SEPT]

AUTHOR GAMES: FROM THE GRAVE - TASK THREE

She sat alone, on the second story where nobody else existed, within the dry and cold confines of a bathtub. It was the only safe space she had, the only area where the noises of the house were, at the very least, dulled, and she could find some shred of peace. All in all, it probably would've been wiser for her to leave the house - no more a home than the curb - altogether, but if she was being completely honest with herself, she didn't know where else to go. The memories of how to get to her parents' home were blurred, and her brother likely moved somewhere she'd have no chance of tracking down. This was all she had.

A porcelain capsule and a fucking bath mat.

The bath mat itself wasn't even within her grasp; a tubby old creature laid comfortably across its surface, golden fur shaking here, big jaw yawning there. She knew the dog. He'd been hers, once. Glancing down at the thing, she felt a yearning to be, well, felt, and so she reached out over the ledge of the tub and skimmed her fingers over the surface of his head, ready to scratch where he loved most, because she still remembered-

The dog's head shrunk away, a whimper emanating from its throat. When September retracted her hand, the pet took it upon itself to haul out, hobbling through the door and down the steps.

September sighed. Knees pulled up to a pointed chin, same casual dress exposing hollowed collarbones - she was cold. Shouldn't have been, deadness considered, but nonetheless was, with her ethereal thighs sticking against the polished curve. I want to go back to the Now. I'm a little over the Before, honestly.

But she couldn't. All she could do was listen to the sounds of a family through the floor. The new woman - who she'd learned went by the name Juniper - was always laughing at something, usually trivial and unfunny. Everett would laugh with her by default, catching the contagion. September avoided going downstairs often because the sounds were louder and if she could see them she usually saw one of the two swinging around the chubby-cheeked toddler - a chubby-cheeked toddler with a striking resemblance to Everett, might she add. It wasn't an extremely good feeling that came when she witnessed these things. Not at all.

The thing was, it became addictive.

So addictive, in fact, that the second the laughter stopped and serious conversation began, she noticed without even paying attention, really. She guessed it was serious only because she couldn't hear it clearly, but a few minutes later, bits and pieces came through.

"Be safe," Everett said. "And pick me some dandelions to make the house smell all weedy, like your mother loves."

Why does that hurt? God, damn.

"Yeah, I think we'll pass on that," Juniper laughed. Always fucking laughing. "Are you sure you don't wanna come?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty sure. There's phone calls to make, yada yada."

More mumbling, and then the front door clicked, and Juniper, along with her child, were gone.

A resounding silence fell over everything, then. Like a sheet covering old furniture, emptiness covered the previously brightened tone.

September lifted her head. And she listened, listened for something, anything. All creaking and shuffling from a man walking around in silence. Do something, she dared, do something.

When he actually did, she shrunk away, back pressing against the tub as Everett's head came rising up the stairs. She had a clear view of it through the open door, and if only he were to look up, he'd see her - he'd see her.

He looked up, and he didn't see her.

Turning into the lounge, he left her line of sight, but the tenseness never left her sharp shoulders. Instead, she listened: the footsteps stopped, a key jiggled in a lock, and a door abused by lack of use creaked heavily, scraping the wood floors. Her ears vibrated with the scratch. She knew what the door was, which door he'd opened - but why it was locked, and why he'd actually put it to use, was a mystery to her. I doubt "Juniper" ever went in.