Annie's Room by Amy Cross

Author:Amy Cross
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Dark Season Books
Published: 2015-09-02T04:30:00+00:00

Twelve

Seventy-one years ago

Watching myself in the mirror, I reach back and start to tie my hair. I know it's a little vain to spend time bothering about my personal appearance, but I feel the need to look more grown-up. After all, I'm no longer a child and it won't do to look like one, so I have begun to experiment with various subtle changes. Fortunately, Mother's dresses fit me rather well, and I intend to take them in a few inches at the waist. My hair, meanwhile, looks much better when it's tied back.

I swear, just these few simple changes make me look ten years older, perhaps even more.

Once I'm certain that I look my best, I head out of my room and down the stairs. It's still early and I intend to reorganize the kitchen, to make it fit my needs a little better. All last night, I lay in bed planning some alterations I intend to make around the house, and although I haven't mentioned any of these out loud yet to Father, I'm quite certain that they will meet no resistance. After all, every single one of them is rooted in common sense and -

Stopping suddenly in the kitchen doorway, I stare in horror at the sight of Mother working at the sink, washing breakfast dishes.

Father, at the table, glances at me for a moment with somber eyes before looking back down at his plate.

“What...” I pause, convinced that this has to be some kind of mistake. “What's happening?”

“Your Mother has come back up,” Father mutters. “She's learned her lesson.”

I watch as Mother limps to the cupboard and sets a plate on the shelf. She has to tilt her head, as if she's trying to see out through one of the less scratched parts of her damaged eyes; although it takes a moment, she's able to find a cup on the counter and take it back to the sink. She glances at me, and although there's a great deal of fear in her eyes, there's also some self-satisfaction. She's wearing a proper dress again and her hair is more or less back to its old neatness, but as she starts to wash the cup I can't help but feel she looks like a savage dressed up in civilized clothes. As if to prove that point, she almost knocks a stack of pots over, and it's clear that her damaged eyes make it much harder for her to work. She's still blinking furiously, almost non-stop, as if the scratches are unbearably uncomfortable.

“Father,” I continue finally, turning to him with a sense of cold steel in my chest, “you didn't say that -”

“It's done now,” he replies. “I made the decision this morning.”

“But -” With tears in my eyes, I start to feel an incandescent rage building through my body. I clench both my fists, filled with the urge to go over and beat Mother back down into the basement, but I know Father would stop me and I also know that I wouldn't get what I want by letting my anger overflow.

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