Author's Note: Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.
Back To The Start
"Buck up, babe," Missie muttered to herself, hauling her rucksack higher on her shoulder, "it's time to start the show." She smoothed down the oversized black and white checked shirt buttoned up to her chin, its hem hanging down to the ripped knees of her skinny jeans, flapping like wings behind her whenever the wind blew. Her greasy hair was tucked up into the Carharrt trucker cap she'd found at the bus station where she'd tried to wash up, but that had been a losing battle, the filth having become almost like a second skin.
Her hand hovered above the brass door knocker, her nerve going. Desperation had led her here, but it was either this or another night out there, and she'd had enough of that, being nearly driven to breaking point. Baggins was long gone, just like everyone else she'd ever cared about, and the voices were getting louder, escaping the confines of her consciousness, existing outwith her head. It seemed like they were trying to tell her something, but what, she didn't know, and didn't want to know either.
Exhaling sharply, she banged the door knocker, once, twice, thrice. As she waited for somebody to answer, two girls rounded the side of the house, only to stop dead at the sight of Missie standing on the porch. The older of the two, a thickset girl with long dishwater blonde hair, studied Missie with narrowed eyes, the other edging away, looking nervous.
"Hey, this is private property," the blonde girl spat, making Missie turn around, "any hobos caught trespassing will get their asses kicked, do y'hear?"
Missie tilted her head to the side. "Oh, I hear you loud and clear," she said smartly, "so I suggest you make like a tree and leave."
It took a moment for Missie's meaning to sink in, but when it did, the blonde girl's face turned an ugly shade of red. But before she could do anything, the door opened, revealing a tall, dark haired woman in faded denims and a grey thermal, a dish-towel hanging from her hand. Upon seeing Missie standing there, she did a dramatic double-take, her brown eyes bulging comically, her other hand gripping the door-frame for support. "Melissa?" she said in disbelief, staring at Missie as if she were Satan. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Missie said, shoulders hunching, wishing herself a world away. But there were many circles of hell and she at least knew how to navigate her way through this one.
Her mother looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing. "What an unexpected pleasure, Melissa," she said coldly, recovering her composure, nostrils flaring with disgust at Missie's palpable body odour, "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."
"Five years too soon," Missie replied. "Time just flies, doesn't it, Mom?"
"You drop out of college, and then you hook up with a drop-out who has now dropped you. Would you say that was the gist of your whole sorry existence?"
"All I'm hearing is the word drop, Mom."
"Well, you've dropped the ball one too many times, Missie, and I am sick of picking you up off the floor."
"Who, me or the ball?"
Missie's mother just shook her head, Missie sinking back into the sofa, feeling like five years hadn't passed at all; that she had never left in the first place. She glanced around the living room, noting nothing had changed here either, only that the furniture was even more battered than before. And the years hadn't been kind to her mother either. She had aged, and badly at that. Victoria Butler had once been a striking looking woman, but stress and cigarettes had taken their toll, turning her into an old woman before her time.
"I hope you're not bringing any trouble to my door," Tori accused, eyes narrowing again. "Are you?"
Missie kept a poker face, concealing her panic in plain sight, remembering the mens' faces, their hands on her, holding her down; the ruthless edge of the knife against her skin."No, of course not," she lied, remembering coming back from the charity hospital, only to find Nate gone, not even leaving a note. She had skipped cities that night, getting a Greyhound out of town, before going to ground, and here she was, hoping she'd finally ran far enough.
"You're certainly bringing a stink, that's for sure," Tori snapped, shielding her nose with the back of her hand. "When did you last have a shower?"
"I tried to clean up before I came here."
"Sure doesn't smell like you tried hard enough."
Missie winced, sinking further into the sofa, wishing it would absorb her entirely. Outside, the air rung with the sound of children yelling and their thudding feet, making Missie's head ache. "How are the boys?" she asked awkwardly, her leg ticcing. She'd lost touch with her four brothers, but then again, she'd expected no different. Missie had been the baby of the family and a girl to boot, her youngest brother being ten when she was born. Growing up, she and her brothers had never been close, only sharing a surface warmth that had faded over time. There wasn't any hostility, only emptiness.
"They're good," Tori said evasively, sparing a glance at the studio portrait hanging above the fireplace, showing her surrounded by her sons, her husband and daughter missing from the family line-up. It had been taken two years after Joel's death, Melissa long gone at this point. She liked the picture regardless of this though; it showed how her family should be, not what they were.
Missie nodded, not sure what else to say. She was desperate for a shower and a hot meal, never mind clean knickers. Humble had never been her favourite flavour of pie yet here she was, first in line for a second helping, her mother never mean when it came to cutting her a slice. But the fact Tori had let her through the front door though in the first place was a positive sign, but she couldn't afford to be overly optimistic.
"You've got gall to show your face here," Tori then said, shaking her head, "sheer and utter gall."
"Mom" -
- "All that goddamn money wasted..." Tori shook her head again, lighting up a cigarette. "When I think about the frigging things I could have done with that money," she complained, taking a long drag, "but oh no, I had to clean up yet another one of your hot messes."
Missie's jaw tightened. College had been the key to freedom only for her to find out it was just another gilded cage. She had stuck it out for as long as she could, before quietly dropping out, taking up with Nate, only to end up on the streets. "Okay, I bailed – big-time," she admitted, straightening up, "but I tried to keep in touch. You didn't."
"Would you have if you were me?"
"I'll pay you the money back."
"With what, fairy dust?"
"I'll get a freaking job."
"Honey, no employer in their right mind is going to take you on – not with that resume."
"I worked three summers straight at the car wash" -
- "Because you had no qualms with wearing wet-t-shirts," Tori snapped, "and look where the hell that led to!"
Missie swallowed hard, wishing she hadn't mentioned the car wash, the very memory enough to nauseate. That summer had been the tripwire, the spark to the fuse, sending her off the rails. It had been the summer where she'd cemented all her mother's suspicions she was just simply no good.
"Hadn't I warned you to watch your behaviour?" Tori pressed, waving her cigarette in agitation. "To not prance about like a prostitute in front of all these college boys?"
Missie looked away, fighting the bile rising in her throat. That summer had been her last at the car wash. It served as a town institution, run by the richest man in the county, Miles Davies. It was a high school rite of passage to spend the summer working there, and she had loved it, unashamedly enjoying her status as eye candy, earning her huge tips, Missie making eyes if it made her money. It had fuelled her already out of control ego, Missie thinking herself untouchable until Joshua Davies had taught her that day in his father's office that she wasn't, trying to force himself upon her.
Her father had promised to pick her up from work that day to drive her down to the lake, where she'd arranged to go swimming with friends, Missie agreeing to meet him at the car wash's main entrance. But when she hadn't showed up, he'd gone looking for her, checking the car wash office, only for all hell to break loose when he'd walked in on them. He hadn't cared that Joshua Davies's father was a dangerous man to cross, simply battering the boy to a pulp, nearly sending him first class into the afterlife.
He had almost lost his job as a sheriff's deputy over it, being meant to uphold the law, not affront it, but in the end it had been hushed up, Miles Davies taking advantage of the corrupt justice system, using his wealth to grease the necessary palms. His son had skipped town regardless, and Missie had left for college that autumn, escaping her mother's accusing eyes.
Even now, Missie could only think of that summer with disbelief, unable to accept it had even happened. But what had shocked her most was her father's reaction; that deep down he had cared for her after all. He had always been a man's man, preferring to spend time with his sons over his daughter, emotionally keeping her at arm's length. He served as her chauffer, ferrying her about, as well as bankrolling her existence, but that had been the extent of his involvement in her upbringing.
But she'd learned he loved her too late, her father dying the following year in the line of duty. He had been dealing with a domestic, only to end up taking a knife to the stomach. He had died slowly, painfully; his hand in hers when his eyes had finally closed.
"It wasn't my fault," Missie said suddenly, "Joshua Davies had no right to do that to me, no matter what I wore, and my father recognized that. He never said I deserved it like you did. And you know what? I didn't."
Missie stood in the middle of her old room, feeling disorientated, like she'd stepped into a time warp, making her tighten her hold on the towel wrapped around her. Her pink and white four poster bed was still there, the only difference being that the bed was now neatly made, her lace pillows arrayed in almost military order. The walls were still papered with boy-band posters, as well as photos of her and her friends pulling stupid faces, the gaps inbetween punctuated with rosettes from horse-riding competitions and spelling bee certificates. A bookcase stood in the far corner, irregular rows of books spilling across the shelves alongside her old collection of snow globes. Opposite was her fancy white and gold vanity, its surface still littered with old issues of Teen Vogue, dried out make-up and scratched CDs, the mirror framed with flashbulbs, which had always made the young Missie feel like a movie-star whenever she checked her reflection.
She wandered over to one of the windows, craning her neck to see if her old escape route was still there, holding onto the sill for support with her other hand, whilst holding up the towel with the other. The wooden trellis was bare of its usual foliage, but nothing else had altered, resurrecting memories of sneaking out behind her parents' backs. She would always fear being heard more than the fall, the wood creaking under her weight, leaving her fingers full of splinters. The cute boy next door had caught her creeping out once, only agreeing to keep it a secret in return for a kiss, Missie striking the bargain without a second thought.
Exhaling sharply, Missie drew her head in, wondering at her mother for keeping the room almost as a shrine. Her mother had only got into fostering when her two eldest sons had moved out, originally only taking in teenage boys, joking they were her MO. But when the others had left the nest, leaving her with a houseful of empty rooms, she'd expanded her intake and repertoire, fostering those who weren't welcomed anywhere else, and giving house room to the odd emergency case from time to time.
Unlike her own room, her brothers' old bedrooms had been put to full use, the two largest having each had an en-suite installed at some point during her absence, whilst the two smaller rooms still had to make do with the upstairs bathroom down the hall. Each room had been repainted and now contained a set of bunk-beds, a single wardrobe and matching chest of drawers; the interiors lacking personality, rendering the surroundings sterile, the sight making Missie almost recoil. It was more like a hotel than a house, but her mother wasn't doing this out of the goodness of her heart, only interested in securing a steady income.
Gritting her teeth, Missie went over to the old walk-in wardrobe, ignoring the battered 'BOGEY-MAN ON BOARD' sign taped to its front. She had snuck all her dirty clothes into the laundry, more than sure her mother would object if she knew, but it had left her with nothing to wear. Missie hesitated before sliding open the door with some difficulty, having to give it a good whack with the palm of her hand. Inside was complete chaos, clothes dangling from hangers, T-shirts warring with dresses, bikinis tangled up with trousers. Her style then had been bright and preppy, the sight almost hurting her eyes, a world away from what she wore now.
Biting the bullet, she pulled out a bright pink Sloppy Joe jumper, a neon green vest top and a pair of denim cut-offs, pulling out an old prom-dress, a crop top and hoodie at the same time. She didn't bother picking them up, leaving them lying on the floor as she made her way over to the chest of drawers, ignoring the cheerleading trophies lining the shelf above. She made short work of finding clean underwear and socks, ignoring the faded fabric, even though the bra situation would be a bitch until her old underwear was washed, the straps cutting painfully into her flesh each time she so much as stretched an arm. And as for new shoes, what was on offer in her closet was limited, most of her former footwear having mysteriously gone missing.
Wandering over to the vanity, Missie studied her reflection, running her tongue over her teeth, having brushed them until her gums bled. Out there, dental hygiene had been haphazard, Missie living on limited means, existing on next to nothing. Along with the toothpaste, toothbrush, floss and mouthwash, she had also appropriated a number of toiletries for her own use, which her mother would surely have something to say about. With slightly shaking hands, she smoothed down her jumper, Missie watching the movement in the mirror, her gaze then travelling upwards again, dwelling on her ravaged features, exhaustion aging her.
She could see her mother's face behind her own, both sharing the same sallow skin, slanting cheekbones and crooked mouths, her eyes the only inheritance she had from her father, ebony to the point of almost obscuring her irises. Her dark hair fell down her back in damp waves, the strands trailing across her shoulders likes snakes. She remembered the last time she'd looked in this mirror, oblivious of the fate awaiting her, a fucked up future of her own forging; only thinking she was finally escaping the house that had never been a home, only to find herself here again.
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh take me back to the start...