For the Weak

Chapter 1, Pt. 1: The Woods

I've always had a deep love for the woods. The way the trees look over me, wind surrounding my body, the way the grass caresses me as I lay staring at the night sky. Tonight is somehow different, however. I can feel blood soaking...no, drenching my once pristine clothing, the beautiful green grass now shining a comforting crimson, and as I stare at the stars I can feel the cop cruisers coming closer. I know they're for me, and as my head rolls towards the blinding lights...
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Darkness. A pitch-black horror I've never truly recovered from. I'm looking down at my misshapen body, my neck bent in the most vile way and my limbs so visibly splintered. They, the cops and people surrounding my incomprehensible form, understand what I am. My own mother stands above me, hands clasped around her mouth as I lay in my own ichor. All I can see before my vision grows dark is my Sister, Abagail.
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A few hours later, I'm hit with the most unbearable pain. It's something I've never felt before, and it doesn't help that the sun is pounding into my eyes. As I begin to wake, shaking rheum from my eyes, I noticed that my clothes are clean. I've no wounds, and my body is back to being my standard-issue, unremarkable form. I slowly reach to pick up my phone, and as I check the time I let out a small urgh. After the night I had, I can barely stand the thought of getting up.
As I lay, staring blankly at the ceiling, I can't help but think back to that dream I had. The one thing that sticks out to me is the people that were there; two women.

They're beautiful; both of them wearing the same bright pink Pets & More t-shirt. One of them is much taller, and had her once-curly hair straightened into an emo wolf cut. She's twisting a hot pink strand in her recently manicured fingers, moonlight dancing around her thin-rimmed glasses. Bracelets of all colors decorated her left wrist, and on her right rested a mauve analog watch that read 1:27 a.m.
My mind begins to wander to the rest of her outfit: a jet-black, spiked choker and matching belt, and a dark Bordeaux skirt that lies neatly atop a light pink petticoat. Because of how short these skirts were, she's also wearing shorts - a magnificent pompadour color. Moving to her legs, I notice knee-high socks and a long pair of leg warmers, which matched her shorts and draped almost elegantly over her chunky boots.
To top her outfit off, she wore a light pink bow in her hair and a white name tag on her top which read "Jenna".

The other girl looked to be about 4'10, haphazardly dyed highlights peeking through her dark brown hair. It looks as though she's dyed it herself, though it really doesn't look *too* bad. Her eyes shine a beautiful olive green as she looked on in horror at my body. Standing next to Jenna, she fumbled with her necklaces: a rosary, with gorgeous engravings, and a heart locket on a silver chain. Her top was half-way off her shoulder, a dark maroon bra peeking around her collar. In place of a name tag resides a small mushroom pin. It's a beautiful, bright red, a striking contrast against her pink top. She shifts her weight, her ivory belt clinking against the buttons on her forest green jeans, the baggy hem almost getting stuck under her white sneakers.
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My phone buzzes in my hand, snapping me out of my daydream. I recognize the tune as Queen Park by my favorite band, La Familia. I can only tell through the rhythmic vibrations. As I look down at my screen, reading the name "DO NOT ANSWER", my face contorts into a scowl. It's the moving company, and for some reason they asked for my number when I'd made it clear to them (with Abigail's help) that I'm completely deaf. I sigh, letting my annoyance out for a few seconds before standing. I'm still in my pajamas when I walk out to hand my sister the phone.
Abagail is sitting at the dining room table, her long, pale-blonde hair laying softly around her shoulders. Her hair seems as though she's constantly underwater, as a few strands consistently play in the air around her.
When she hears me approaching, she turns her face towards me; all I can see are her giant eyes as she gives me the deer-in-headlights look. I take a few moments to pause and take in her clothing. She's wearing our mother's choker, a dark green piece of velvet which wraps tightly around Abagail's throat. Her style consists of a classic lolita dress, which flares beautifully thanks to the petticoat beneath it. She's wrapped a dark purple ribbon around the waist, and placed a beaded belt on top. Amongst the lilac droplets shines a golden key with her full name and birthday engraved in it, a beautiful token of our mother's love.

She sits awkwardly at the table, her heels pointing inwards at one-another as she fiddles with her cream colored gloves. When we make eye contact, she stops to sign:

"Who's calling?" An inquisitive look spreads across her face. I give her a frown as I point my phone screen towards her. She grimaces, knowing exactly who it is, then takes the still-ringing phone.

As she talks to the movers, she begins to pace the dining room. It takes a lot for Abagail to get upset, but this person must have been especially angering, as her hair quickly began to rise from its once-relaxed position. I can feel her voice boom throughout the house, floors and walls trembling from the sheer weight of her words. I can't help but feel frightened, but not for my sake. The onslaught endures for another minute before she clicks End Call and rests the phone onto our weathered mahogany table.

As soon as the call is over, her hair resumes its natural arrangement, strands flowing like seaweed in the ocean over her puffed sleeves. When she's calm enough, she begins signing again:
"I can't believe they're coming today. We're not even done packing, and now-" she pauses, huffing in sheer exasperation. She's clearly still upset as she continues. "I swear, it's like he wants us to..." Her hands slowly drop to her sides as she rushes to the door, feet seeming to never touch the ground. When she opens the door, a guy with tall liberty spikes and a T-shirt that reads "WE-HAUL, MOVING MADE MANAGEABLE" stands there. Abagail's hair curls up in the back as she talks to him, and knowing it's gonna be a while I decide to take one last look around our home.
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I move at a snail's pace towards the living room, my socked feet padding against the large rug. We'd bought it from an indigenous reservation 300 years ago, and it's been incredibly well-taken care of. The colors, gorgeous reds and oranges which create a gradient that resembles the sky at dusk calm me as I look on at the walls.

Photos from every era covers the wall from corner to corner. Everybody thinks that the people in them are me and Ab's ancestors; I can't blame them, we've had plenty of crazy and different looks over the years. I think the 60s were my favorite. The photograph we have hung up is of me, my head full of healthy, dark brown hair. Flowers from all over our garden decorate each strand, matching my giant rose tinted glasses, my vanilla-colored peasant dress, and my light yellow gogo boots. I'm laughing next to Doris Day, drinking some wine and posing playfully on a large conversation couch. The frame is dated 12-05-64, the numbers etched carefully into the marbled oak. I smile softly as my eyes move from photo to photo, decade to decade. I see photos of me with popular figures from the 70s to the 80s, to the early 2000s. I can't help but feel a tug at my stomach, the feeling that me and Abagail are, in fact, old. I try to shake the thought from my head by turning to our small coffee table, a cute wooden creation with antique-looking bear paws at the bottom of each leg. I feel a wave of calm wash over me as I pick up one of the many Kewpie figurines off of the lace doily, turning it over and over in my hands. I look down at it, adoring its tiny, starfish hands and blushed cheeks. It's posed in a standing position, head down and eyes peeking to the side almost as if to say "Did I do that?"

It belonged to my mom, and it makes me think of what life might be like when we move back into that old house. I smile gently at the memory of her kind face, her movements when she'd cook breakfast for me and my sister. I place the doll back onto the table, rolling around the thoughts of my mother in my head as I walk slowly to our sectional couch. Right as I'm about to sit, I'm interrupted by the thuds of heavy footsteps behind me. As I turn around, I see the man who knocked earlier, and only now do I catch the name tag, the name Kyle Bautista scrawled into the plastic. My eyes roll as I turn to the man next to him.

He's this short, mousey-looking man with teeth too large for his mouth. He's peering up at me nervously, eyes barely showing over his 2-inch thick glasses, fiddling with his Walmart tuxedo. He's got a bowl cut which is kept neatly pressed to his face, and a brand new name tag that says Robert Pais.

The pair must have noticed my confused and judgemental looks, because Kyle begins speaking. Robert interprets his words poorly, as he can barely keep up with Kyle's fast talking pace. All I can glean from that interaction is that they're starting to pack our stuff, and that me and Abagail should take what we need to our new home.