A Godawful Small Affair
“Go.” Charles’ exasperation bled into his tone, his glare profound. “Just... just go, Lydia.”
One step too far: that’s what he’d called it. Sat atop the bottom step of the porch, the events replayed over and over again in her mind with such vivid detail Lydia might as well have been hooked up to the silver screen. How Delia had made a flippant remark about her mom and Dad just... didn’t do anything but turn the other cheek. Again. How she’d shouted; how they’d shouted. How their already fragile relationship fell apart at the seams, she lamented.
Pulling her legs up to her chest, she yearned for a better day. A better time when all was well. When Dad was happy and Mom alive. When she could be their little bundle of joy, not a “moping ghost skulking about the house!” Tears welled and slipped, unbidden, down her cheeks, shoulders raising at peculiar intervals in sync with her erratic breathing.
Go.
He wanted her to leave. She was a burden to him. To him and Delia. There was no longer a space in his heart for her; her home seemed to slip from her grasp faster the tighter she tried to clutch onto it... just as she had with Mom.
So... what was the point of staying where she was so obviously unwelcome? A wicked cocktail of anguish and resentment crashed over her in terrible waves, prompting her head to raise from its nestle in her arms. Eyes fixed on an unspecified point in the distance, conviction reinforced her bones with steel. She rose as though Talos, set to meet Athens’ mighty fleet.
One step over the threshold. One step into an uncertain future, but an uncertain future that belonged to Lydia and Lydia alone. Not Dad’s; not Delia’s: hers. One foot in front of the other and before she knew it she was away. Gone.
Not like they’d miss her anyway. So drunk on one another that she doubted they’d even notice her absence.
And so she began to wander. Farther and farther she strayed; farther and farther into her mind she’d receded. A sunken dream when all was alright: where Mom was alive and she was alright with the frivolous recklessness of childhood.
Enraptured by the fictitious world of the silver screen, reality began to disappear before her very eyes. The seedy dance hall where she’d made her way was no more than a backdrop; the impassioned cussing of brawling sailors made for the soundtrack of her thoughts. Thoughts making up both fact and fiction, loathing and longing.
And so she learned that hate and love was a very sensitive scale, so easily tipped.
Staring sullenly into the depths of her filthy glass of water, she was vaguely aware of a body occupying the seat beside her, far too engrossed in her own self pity. Why should she take note of a hooded stranger? Why should she show any interest in the cloaked character with distinctly feminine hands? Why was she turning her head to get a better look at this enigmatic woman? Her brows furrowed as the questions chased round and round in her mind.
Then the stranger turned and, in doing so, stole all of the breath from her lungs.
A woman fairer than any she’d ever seen stared back at her. Skin paler than moonlight stretched over an ovular face. Intelligent ebony eyes stared into her own, unblinking, relishing in the discomfort that bloomed in Lydia’s chest; black hair framed her face in two twin braids.
“So you’re the ghost who’s been haunting this town as of late?” The stranger asked in a monotone voice that made her heart race inexplicably (fear, she told herself) and a blush heat her cheeks (guilt, she assured herself, nothing else). “Has nobody told you that’s my job?”
Under normal circumstances, Lydia would have been inclined to laugh. However, there was an intensity to this girl’s gaze she daren’t insult by confusing it with mirth. Not yet prepared to offer a vocal response, she shook her head in rejection.
“No? Then I suppose it’s only proper I offer you the official threat.” With that she cleared her throat, and brandished a knife. “Stop haunting my town or I shall be forced to scalp you and mount your head on a spike.” Then, knife tucked into the inside pocket of her cloak, she continued. “That threat I have only issued twice, both times to somebody in need. Elaborate.”
It wasn’t a question, but more an order. That’s how Lydia began to explain her story so far, from her mother dying to her row with her dad to how she ended up in a shifty bar on a Thursday evening. The girl was an attentive listener — silent and still as stone whilst she recited the events leading up to their introduction.
“Hm, that sounds like the theory of displacement. My father had the same problem not long ago.”
“Is it unpleasant?”
“Oh yes,”— she grinned — “Yes, completely.”