The House(Slow Updates)

the house/1

The Arrival of Lady Tremaine.

No turning back now, I said to myself as I watch the bus speed off down the road like the devil was at its wheels.

Come to think of it the leathery lined and crease wrinkled face of the old bastard with the straggly gray hair beneath the sweat stain cap was probably the old bastard himself, he knew how to come up from hell and drive me freaking crazy with all the mishaps and misfortunes he could pack into my daily existence and this bus ride had been one of those instances.

I stare at my surroundings and decide I best find myself somewhere hospitable as beside the lonely bench weathered by sun, rain, and time, where I stood, was not the place I wanted to stay.

I was here for a specific reason, and until the next bus arrives, which I was told none too nicely by the old goat 'three days time at this exact hour!' his watery cataract eyes shifty as if hiding something from me before he bellowed for me to get out. The arrival was very timely because it was only going to take me three days to accomplish what I came here to do.

I best get a move on. I hoist my battered carry all over my shoulder and head for the only clearing that I could see in the tall forest of pine and maple trees that border both sides of the road. I only hope whatever town was at the end of that road wasn't miles away.

The sun was blazing and its heat seeps through the trees that line the road here as well. It was as if these trees were a cloak that held coverage over what lay ahead because they offer me no solace from the heat as I trod the lonely road. At times I peer into its deep dark cluster and search with my gritty tired eyes, what I hope to see I could not tell. There seems to be a mystery about these tall motionless trees. It seems as if they were watching me as I walk on by.

Ten hours on a bus with nothing but one quick stop at the only pick-up that was made along the journey and the lack of proper sleep was taking its toll on my senses it seems. I was in no way prepared to walk no long mile either. I wish I had a watch at least I could know what time it was.

My stomach on the other hand made a deep rumbling sound letting me know that it was long overdue for a meal. I was grateful when the road gave way to a clearing that shows what appears to be a town. Here it was as if the forest was a hen that nestles it within the folds of her downy wing.

My feet lost all tiredness as I walk past a sign that reads, Welcome to Drakesville. I look about me and see a few cars parked by a diner. I saw a hair salon, an emporium with an old-time-worn Ford truck idling by its doors, stretching farther away from there was a hostel and what seems to be a tavern. I stand there for a minute and watch as the meager array of people went about their activities paying no mind to me a stranger in their town.

I make for the diner my body sweaty beneath the white shirt that I tied above the waist of my black ripped jeans that were tucked inside scoffed black combat boots, my hair which I wore in a high puff of coily curls was running rivulets of sweat down the side of my fair face.

My eyes which were a topaz blue search for an empty table as it quickly took in the yet again meager occupancy. Did this town have children and teenagers? I was surprised once again as no one stared at me with blatant curiosity, it seems like it was a norm for people to find their way into their town looking disheveled, tired, hungry, and sweaty so it garnered no interest.

I found an empty table and place my bag on the corner of my seat, I took up the menu and read it before I made a quick look around me to see that the sparse patrons had only cups in front of them they seem content to just sit quietly. It was as if a total stranger had not much long walk in.

My thoughts about this pushed aside as a waitress came to my table and smile sweetly at me. Her blonde hair was caught in a high ponytail showing off the cuteness of her round face. She wore a white stripe tunic over a black button-down shirt with puff sleeves and a matching ankle-length skirt. On her feet were practical black boots she had no name tag.