"Now I know why tigers eat their young."
-Al Capone
(AN: If you don't know I am working on two plotted stories at once, and I am not a very fast writer my apologies ahead of time. This is the chapter where you are introduced by next week I'm hoping to have an update. So probably during or after Christmas break. Traveling up state takes a lot of time to put together.)
The rumbling vibrations of a car pulling into a hospitalable little house at the edge of the decent part of 'Valday. Some of the fanciest women, dancers, bariestas lived their. It wasn't the most popular for non modest entertainment nowadays. That wasn't the point, The point was the car was not the reason for the rumbling internally. No that intolerable rumbling was done by the person driving. Who was the person driving? There is always someone driving, a woman repeated to herself. Over and over.
"Always driving."
"Always driving."
"Keep driving."
"Keep driving."
"Always driving"
Always driving"
"Keep-"
The woman paused her rambling to pick up her purse. She decided stopping her mumbling and picking up her purse had to be done. As she was already sitting in the garage. And now she couldn't just start mumbling again. What sense would that make? She scoffed at her own ignorance, to actually think to continue mumbling. Crawling out of the old model she walked to the door on her right side. She giggled as she slid the key in, She was drowsey from work.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Work.
W-O-R-K
That was all the woman thought about, She new her mother would be there when she would walk in. She was always there, always concerned. Always sitting in the little yellow couch. No it wasn't just yellow, it was a light tan with beautiful cherry blossoms sewn over it. A new homey look a friend had sent her. Well an international friend. The woman slung her bag down on the tiny oval oak coffee table. Her mother turned and went to ask her how her day was.
"Hello-"
"They want me to dance."
The woman told her twisting her bright red lips into a curved smile. The lips, the disgustingly red lips. Like ketchup, Like uncooked meat. Like the uncooked meat that still had the blood dripping out of it. The one the woman always picked up at the butchers.
"That's nice, are you going to dance."
"Yes."
The woman answered calmly, Pulling down her short pencil skirt. She walked up the classy Spiral staircase. It was only there to conserve space. She knew it. But that wasn't the point either and it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that the woman was going to dance. And that is were the problem comes in. The woman had no idea what she was getting into. She knew she was going to dance. Not for who. For where. Ah yes, Key word where. Because this does deal with land. Yes much land. This woman has no idea were she is going. Or what she is doing, But to crush someone. You have to sacrifice something. This woman would be that. These would be the thoughts she'd never have. Or the things she'd never say.
The woman chuckled and smiled to herself. She would get out of this damn communism. It would be exciting. She shook her hands and stripped herself of her large white parka. It was the new long trench like parkas. The really cute ones with furred hoods. that was the one thing the woman would say. One of the last things, not before she died. But the only thing other than material hatings. The one thing she didn't hate was a parka. That's sad, upsetting even. But she claimed it all on being a woman. Most women did. If you let them talk that long, it was an issue on men and women's parts. obviously it's just a stereotype. Just like every woman with short hair is a lesbian. Not that anyone here had short hair. Hell, no women never cut anything. And by anything she meant body hair. The woman did. She felt the normality was disgusting. Women shouldn't have body hair. That was her opinion at least. Her friend's Opinion was not so much close to hers.
The woman then left her parka on her door knob, Oh yes she had walked upstairs (The circular ones). She had also walked into a door on the left. The door on the LEFT, not the door on the right. Huge difference. Because there was no door on the right. It was fake. Funny that they had just put a door on the wall. The woman fixed the parka to perfection on the door knob. And then she left, And walked downstairs. To her mother.
"Did you bake the bread"
"I did"
The women never talked much. It was just little conversations. Little snip its of talking. She walked away again, this time away from the stairs and to the kitchen. Across the floor.
The woman grabbed the loaf of fresh baked wheat bread, She opened up a kitchen drawer And pulled out a cheese knife. She lifted a the loaf between her hands. she sliced with the cheese knife. It was an idea she had wanted to always try. She didn't think it would work but at least she had tried. It happened To work out just fine. Curiously the woman tried a piece of the loaf, With the bit of butter they had left. The woman looked toward her mother. Just sitting on the couch.
"What are you still doing here mother?
"I wanted to ask you why you do this to yourself?"
"Because, It's the only thing I can do."
"You have a college degree in psychology"
"Doesn't mean anything"
"It's never to late."
"Yes it is mother." The woman hissed through clenched teeth as she brought her mother a piece of bread with a bit of butter smeared around the flakey tan-ish surface.
"Okay then." The mother lifted the piece of bread to her lips. The woman stared at her, Sliding her hands along her hips till they reached their normal drooping position. The position at her sides. Slouched shoulders, unattractive. Unattractive at most.
"I'm leaving tomorrow" The woman replied.
"Where too" The mother replied. Her lips covered in the middle by the butter. The butter just slightly gleaming on her pinkish lips.
" I don't know yet where ever they send me." The woman replied. Finishing off her bread, She licked her own butter hinted lips. The Russian butter, Very sweet.
"Will I go with you?" The mother asked.
"No stay here and watch the house." The woman replied.
"Fine." The mother said back.
It was a story the little girl had been told many times by her father, about a woman's lust to leave the Russian Federation. It left her to drive to be a whore in America. It would be a lovely story if not for the fact that it was real. Oh yes it was a very true story. And in reality the little girl was not so little. She was twenty four. She had been working in the secret intelligence agency for about a year now. She was trained as an officer, Police that is and was working on International threats to America.
The woman hadn't thought of anything else but her mother for the longest time. That was before turning onto the side of her frame, sniffing the soft freshly washed blankets. The blankets that smelled of coffee and fresh washed laundry. That's what the woman had always loved about her room, ever since she had spilled coffee when she was a teenager. She had dropped the cup on the windowsill and it went into her hardwood floor. And it had a little blackish stain on the floor. But the smell was worth the stainage. It was a smell that reminded the woman of HQ. and her boss, her boss who was always eating or going to star bucks. You think the man would be a little more worried about his job. Reckless he was, with a position like that. Anyways, The woman inhaled the coffee. It was good to be home at her father's house. She would be deported to an almost shifting 3rd world country. Some of the best agents in the country would meet her there.
The job sure was interesting, but really safe? No way, the woman had never been sent on something so extreme. And honestly if she could speak about it, She would have just let wind come from her trachea. Because she wouldn't be able to sound anything else. A man walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. The freshly washed bed sheets.
"I never understood why it smells of coffee in here..." He mumbled.
"I was fourteen." The woman replied.
"Oh?" The man questioned her again.
"Yes, I was fourteen I spilled the coffee cup you gave me, the one with 'Winne the pooh' on it." The girl sneered almost shuddering as he tried to get up and leave.
"Well kid relax, you have a big six months ahead of you." The man sighed closed the door and flicked off the lights. She could see her own demise played out in her head.
If she was in Africa: Bitten by snakes.
If she was in Russia: Killed by the mob.
If she was in mexico: Mugged and shot by the police.
If she was in Ukraine: Shot in the cross fire.
The woman played down her options in her head. She did not like them. She had no idea where she was going. And she was not liking it. Before she closed her eyes a small furry mass moved toward her, It was the old cat. Spice cake. She was a fat little orange thing with an adittude to out bid all. The cat crawled up and over her blankets and slid next to the woman. The woman lay two gentle pats on her head. Then she stopped. The woman did close her eyes she was asleep. She would be ready.