Just Let The Heads Roll

Home, it's where the heart is
So just let me breathe again...

"Did you take that new box of toothpaste?"

Missie turned around, only to see her mother standing at the top of the stairs, her face furious. "Yes," she said smartly, "and a toothbrush, floss, mouthwash, some shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, a razor" -

- "Enough with the frigging shopping list," Tori snapped. "You should have asked first."

"You should have offered."

Tori's jaw tightened. "You had a rucksack with you," she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest, "what was in it?"

"A few dirty clothes."

"And where are they?"

"In your washing machine."

"Infecting my washing machine no doubt."

"Probably."

Tori studied Missie for a few moments, eyes narrowing. "Let me make this very clear," she said, taking a step forwards, making Missie take a step back, "I'm not letting you stay here out of the goodness of my heart. I'm expecting you to earn your keep. I've got a string of kids to cater for and you're going to help me cater to them."

"I said I'm going to find a job."

"And until then, you'll pull your weight around here."

Missie bit her lip. From anyone else, this would be a reasonable request, but not when it came from her mother's mouth. "Sure," she said, shrugging her shoulder.

Tori cast her a contemptuous glance before turning on her heel, Missie watching her go with empty eyes.

"Look, the hobo's doing her laundry."

Missie turned around at the sound of sniggering, only to see the thickset girl from earlier standing in the doorway of the utility room, two other girls standing on either side of her. "Talking about yourself, again?" she said airily, piling her hair atop her head. "You shouldn't insult yourself so. Your ego must be suffering as it is, especially with your weight issues, and low self-confidence" -

- "I have a thyroid problem," the thickset girl hissed, stepping inside the room, the other two girls hanging back, no longer laughing, "not a weight problem."

"You sure have an attitude problem," Missie observed, letting her hair drop, spilling down her back again.

"You'll have an even bigger problem on your hands unless you shut up."

Missie scoffed. "Did you seriously just say that?" she said in mock disbelief. "Someone with a weight – sorry, a thyroid problem shouldn't be throwing around sentences like that."

The girl stared at her, mouth trembling despite herself, before suddenly turning and fleeing the room, the other two girls following her. Missie turned back to the tumble-dryer, biting her lower lip, now regretting stooping down to the girl's level. The kid was probably just defending her territory but Missie wasn't here to get involved in gangland wars of the juvenile variety.

"Well, out of the frying pan and into the fire," she muttered to herself, watching the tumble-dryer spin round.

"Melissa!"

Missie hastily sat up from where she'd been lying spread-eagled atop her bed, only to see her mother standing in the doorway, looking mad enough to breathe fire. "What is it?" she yelled over the music, struggling to keep her voice civil. She had done two loads of laundry on top of her own, mopped the floors and washed a stack of dishes, so she thought she was entitled to a little down-time even as it felt unnatural, Missie too on edge to let her guard down, old habits dying hard.

"Turn that shit off," Tori yelled back, gesturing to the boombox, Ain't No Mountain High Enough seguing into Stand By Me. "Mrs. Wong was at the door there, complaining she couldn't sleep because somebody was playing Dancing In The Street on repeat."

"It was Nowhere To Run."

"I don't give a shit what it was - it's eight o'clock in the evening, and I don't want our shitty neighbours coming around complaining about the shitty music you play" -

- "Motown isn't shitty music!" -

- "In case you've forgotten, I have a bunch of kids who are due to go to bed, so I suggest you switch that shit off!"

"Fine, I will!"

"Then do it."

Missie made a big show of switching the boombox off. "Happy?" she snapped, flopping back down on the lace pillows. She had been playing the music at full blast in a vain bid to keep the voices at bay. They seemed to stir into life when all was silent, but never during her dreams, but she figured that was just a matter of time.

"What the hell is that on your jumper? Blood!?"

Missie looked down at her front, brow furrowing. "Oh that," she said dismissively, "I made myself a ketchup sandwich earlier."

"Then goddamn clean yourself up, you're not living on the streets now."

Missie sat up for the second time, making another big show of pulling the jumper over her head, before dumping it dramatically on the floor. "Happy?" she reiterated.

Tori stared at her, eyes widening with horror at the ugly scar that ran from the nape of Missie's neck downwards. "What the hell happened there?" she said in disbelief.

Missie pulled the neck-line of her vest-top higher, trying and failing to hide the trailing scar. "Are we done?" she asked abruptly. "I kind of want my privacy back."

Tori shook her head, letting the matter momentarily drop. "No, I'm not done, Melissa," she retorted. "I've got an emergency case on my hands and I need this room cleared up and you out of it."

"What, you actually put kids in here?"

"Only the emergency ones," Tori said impatiently, "when you went to college, your dad told me to leave your room be. He liked to come in here and sit sometimes. After he died, I couldn't... I mean, it's useful to have somewhere to put a kid that's only going to be here for a day or so."

Missie didn't want to think of her father, to remember what she'd lost. "That explains a lot," she said, sliding off the bed, her words making Tori frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Most of my shoes are gone," Missie snapped, "and God knows what else thanks to their light fingers."

"A lot of these kids have nothing but the clothes they're standing up in," Tori snapped back, going over to the bed, straightening the cushions, "something I'd have at least thought you'd understand, if not sympathize with."

"Oh, I understand all right," Missie said, picking her jumper up off the floor, "but don't expect any sympathy on my part."

"Such a caring, giving girl," Tori said sarcastically, smoothing down the counterpane, "it feels like I have an angel for a daughter."

"Look at my feet, Mom," Missie spat, gesturing angrily to the hot pink sequinned Skechers she was now wearing, "they're kid's shoes. They light up for chrissake!"

"They sure cost your sainted father a pretty penny," Tori remarked, "and how long did you wear them? All of two weeks?"

Missie snorted. "What's the brat's name?" she then demanded, stalking over to the walk-in wardrobe, sliding the door open with more force than needed.

"Amy," her mother said, unplugging the boombox, "Amy Belefort or something like that."