Wrong Turf // (Amity, Ingran) @python @elegant
Jan 8, 2016 5:53:15 GMT -5
Post by troylus on Jan 8, 2016 5:53:15 GMT -5
Tasha hid in her bedroom listening to the crashing sounds coming from just outside her door. The room was in squalor like the rest of the house, her meagre clothing scattered about the place and piles of broken glass and dirty crockery heaped in the corners of the room to get it out of the way. Once upon a time she’d cared about her room, tried to keep it the one clean nice place she could retreat to in the world. But what was the point when HE would just come in and smash things?
A glass shattered against the outside of her door and she heard him opening another bottle. That was just going to make things worse, in the long run. He didn’t have enough alcohol in the house to pass out completely. She imagined him roaming around the house, out of booze and twice as drunk as he was now, and grimaced.
She bit her lower lip, hating herself for what she was about to do, but needing it to be over and done with. The waiting was the worst part, and if he was going to hurt her, better to do it now than after another bottle and endless minutes of dread. She could just climb out of her tiny window and into the night, she was still small enough to squeeze out. But then her punishment was always tenfold when she returned.
She tentatively opened her bedroom door, peeking out. He was slumped in his chair, bottle in hand. His gaze snapped to her at the creak of her door and his eyes narrowed nastily. “Where d’ya think yer goin’?” he slurred, stabbing one finger in her direction.
She knew she could possibly placate him, try really hard to be nice and quiet, make him happy. But he always got mad in the end, no matter how careful she was. So she did the opposite. “None of your business where I’m going.”
“Watch your mouth, little bitch. I’m the one who puts food on the table for you.”
She glanced at the squalid space they called a kitchen, all the cupboard doors flung open from his searching for alcohol, bare except for rubbish and scraps. “Doing a great job there, Dad. If I waited for you to put food on the table, I’d be dead.”
He surged to his feet as well as he could half-drunk and reached one hand for her, “I’ll teach you some manners, girl.”
She fought the urge to step back out of his reach. The last time she’d done that he’d fallen and cut his head open on the coffee table, and she now bore scars from his reprisal that would probably last for her life as a result.
His fingers bit painfully into her upper arm, bruising the pale skin. He dragged her closer, sneering into her face with breath stinking of alcohol and rotting teeth. “You’re just like your mother. She was an ungrateful bitch too. Had to be taught her place.”
Tasha wasn’t making a conscious decision to piss him off anymore, now it was hot headed anger that spilled out of her. No one spoke about her Mother like that, especially not this pig of a man that had made her mother’s life such hell until she died, buried in a pauper’s grave. “Fuck you! You should’ve looked after her better. I’m glad she’s dead to get away from you!”
He lifted his other hand, the one with the bottle, and used it to smack her in the side of the face. She cursed herself for not waiting until he’d put the bottle down before starting into him, as her vision swayed in and out from the heavy blow.
“She was as worthless as you, cost me so much money the pair of you.” He hit her again and finally let go of her arm, tossing her across the room so that she collided with the wall.
She lost consciousness for a few seconds, and lay there when she came to, trying to stay very quiet despite the screaming pain all over her body.
He’d turned half away to take another swig, wiping the residue from his mouth onto his filthy sleeve. “It’s time you started earning your keep,” he muttered. “Ain’t gonna waste money feedin’ someone who don’t pay.”
She closed her eyes, pretending she was invisible, hoping he was done and would forget all about her for a week or so.
He started pacing around the room restlessly, still worked up. It was only a matter of time before his eye fell on her again. The front door was just a few feet away, and signalled freedom, but seemed an impossible distance to make without him spotting her.
She heard his feet slow and realised that he was staring down at her, “Get up.”
She whimpered in fear, “Please Dad, I’m sorry. No more, please? I’ll go get a job, get some money, okay?” She peered up at him through one eye, the other swelling shut and obscuring her vision.
He paused, hand already balled in a fist, but now his eyes were narrowing greedily, alcohol addled brain trying to focus on her words. “What’s a useless kid like you gonna do to earn money?”
She tried to stand but stumbled as her head spun. She went to put an arm out to stop herself from falling but it wouldn’t respond; dislocated, again. She fell to her knees right by his feet, a very dangerous place to be. “I’ll get some money. I know how. Just stop beating on me or I can’t, okay?”
He gave her a kick, but by his usual standards it was half-hearted. “You come home tomorrow with money, or I’ll make you sorry, you hear me?”
Tasha fled out into the cold without bothering to answer him, the biting winter wind cutting through her ragged shirt. Bruce wasn’t too hard to find. He was sitting in his dingy apartment, the front door was locked but the clasp was simple and Tasha knew it well enough that she could unlock it with one hand. Bruce was spaced out in his favourite armchair, as usual. He barely lifted his head in greeting.
“Need you to put my shoulder back in.” She stood in front of him, blocking his view of the dirty wall but he still didn’t respond so she stuck her face inches from his raising her voice to a shrill squawk. “Pop it back in for me, would you?” He sighed in exasperation and reached for her shoulder. She was so small he didn’t need to even get out of his chair, just tugged on her arm until it made a sickening popping sound and went back into the joint.
When she had recovered from the pain enough to speak she poked Bruce’s arm to get his attenion again. “I need some cash, I’ll pay you back.”
The mention of money was enough to bring him from his drugged out trance. He glared at her, “Fuck off Tash. No freebies. You work, you get paid. End of story.” He took a bundle of pills and neatly packaged powder from his jacket pockets and showed them to her.
“I’m not sellin’ that shit for you. I want a job, a proper job. Got any orders for spare parts?” He shook his head so she continued, more desperately now, “I’ll break into that new place Johnny suggested, the one I said was too high risk before.” His scowl was his only response. “Come on, there’s gotta be something I can steal for you.”
He shoved the bag of drugs in her direction with finality. “This or nothing, brat. Dunno what your problem is. Not like I’m telling you to sell your body or something.”
Tasha grimaced at the drugs as if he’d just handed her a bag of dog poo. “Fine,” she growled. “But this is the only time. You get me some decent thieving work, or I’m looking for a better boss.”
He laughed, and the sound made a chill run up her spine in terror. She looked up at him and saw he was playing with his revolver, dropping six shells in with a speedloader. “No one ditches my crew, you hear me?”
She sighed, sick of hearing men in her life asking the same stupid questions. Of course she’d heard him. She had good ears, he was only a few feet away and you should always pay attention to people holding loaded weapons.
“Fine.” She stomped to the front door, slamming it behind her and not bothering to relock it.
She stood on the freezing cold street for hours, trying every spot she knew to sell the stupid drugs. No one in her area could afford pay her. A few looked like they might try and take the drugs from her by force, and she had to slip into the shadows, finding another place to sell. She soon left familiar territory and was standing near a dingy looking apartment block she didn’t recognise. Here her luck seemed to pick up. It was as if people expected to find a dealer here, and she made a quick profit. She didn’t morally object to people buying and using the drugs, she just didn’t like being the one to sell it to them.
She kept an eye for peacekeepers, but this place seemed pretty safe, and she started to feel that this wasn’t so bad after all. She would get some cash tonight, and even after giving Bruce his massive cut she should have enough to placate her father for a while. She even entertained the illusion briefly that he’d forget about sending her out for money and instead she could buy some food and a new jacket. She was starting to run low of stuff to sell, and her pockets felt pleasantly heavy with cash. She was cold to the bone, but happy and didn't notice that her presence had been noted.
