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The last week of July, if it hadn't been this hot in Kildare, would have felt like a lost month in the middle of the winter.
The summer, though it usually would split open like a fruit full of life, came up empty as Bonnie topped off seventeen. An explanation could be found in the fact that her father still haunted the house like a ghost, and partly because all of her friends were becoming more and more bland as the seasons passed. She loved them to death, surely, but Bonnie missed splitting the pomegranate.
It seemed as though the only thing consolidating the fact that summer was well-rooted over the island was the unbearable heat. God, how Bonnie hated the heat. She felt like a lone fruit in the middle of a ceramic bowl on the table, surrounded by sun bleached flies that, just like her, continuously whisper of leaving the island and all its hopelessness behind.
Speaking of fruit, there were none left in the bowl. The only thing that graced their refrigerator was the cheap beer that her father brought by the caseload. So, by the time the sun reached its peak in the open sky, Bonnie slipped a shirt on over her dark red swimsuit and left the old, unsteady house in a hurry.
A hurricane had hit the island just the previous night—Agatha, they dubbed it, gracing it with the strength of all womanhood—which meant that half of Kildare had crumbled into mere dirt. Her house had barely stood through the first round of winds, and nearly flew off by the time the tropical storm had hit its peak. Huddled with her father in the dining room, Bonnie had such a great time she started wishing it never ended. But, of course, as reason would have it, the night passed and her father left in the morning. Like always.
And not even the storm could wash the house clean of the ghosts that haunted through it.
Bonnie was so tired of herself.
The road was ravaged almost to the point of no return, with the dirt roads littered with debris and the asphalt, even worse. Every porch of every neighbouring house had at least half of their railing broken, with wood splintering and washed down, covering the handful of stairs that led up to the houses like shards of glass. It must be just as bad as bad as glitter to clean up, if not worse.
Kicked in with no warning, Bonnie left the door open as she made a beeline for the refrigerator in the Reed house. It was the most spacious on the block, but still didn't compare to the big houses lined on the opposite side of Kildare. The back dock was caved in by the storm, with loose planks of wood floating on the water and piled on the grass, set there by the ruthless wind that had blown it off as though it was nothing but a house of cards. After all, it was not like those houses held any value on a grand scale.
"Bonnie?"
"No, it's the friendly neighbourhood ghost," she scoffed. "Of course, it's fucking me."
