Beyond the Family Ties

Part 13

They stayed at Sam's for a week, with Becky spending her days tidying up, doing laundry for the six of them, preparing something basic for dinner - she was getting quite good now - and making sure Laurel didn't accidentally break any of Sam's belongings. The suburbs were a vastly different place to the inner city rush, and Becky found its quieter, relaxed pace a nice break, although she wondered if it got boring after a while. There was a park a few streets over, the trees turning orange and brown as autumn crept in, and she took Laurel there to push her on the swings and watch her come down the slide, visiting the local stores to pick up groceries, and even browsed a few boutiques and organic shops as she ventured around the neighbourhood.

Freen slept in the guest room with her and Laurel, the little girl wedged in between them, or rather, taking up all the space as the two young women were forced to deal with the toddler laying on them, or confined to the edges of the bed. Despite that, Becky couldn't remember ever sleeping better. But eventually, they had to leave, return to their normal lives and carry on with it, and Becky caught the bus back to the apartment with Freen, a feeling of unease brewing inside as they stepped through the front door of the building, taking in the bruised face of the doorman. The newspaper had reported the death of a judge, his wife and two kids, only the day before - the same judge from her trial - and Becky had been consumed by anger and guilt, hot tears prickling her eyes at the knowledge that, in some way, she'd done that to him. She wondered what her brother had left for her.

Making their way upstairs in the elevator, they climbed out full of trepidation. Becky approached the door first, a wary look on her face as she took in the sliver of sunlight spilling out of the small gap where it was open. It was a sturdy door, made of solid wood, and heavy , yet the single lock turned from the outside had been smashed in easily, and she let out a small sigh as she pressed against the wood, letting it swing inwards to reveal the damage. A small gasp fell from her lips and she blinked back tears as she lingered in the doorway, Freen coming up behind her to see for herself. It was like a bomb had gone off.

Most noticeable were the empty window frames, jagged pieces of glass clinging to the edges of the frames and a bitterly cold wind rushing in, making the whole place cold. Becky shivered as she stepped further inside. The kitchen floor was covered in broken china and glasses, the cupboards left bare, bottles of wine and vodka struggling to mix with the olive oil kept on the counters, creating a sour mix. The bag of ground coffee beans had been upturned, the kitchen utensils scattered across the floor, and cupboard doors standing open from where they'd been raided. And that was just the kitchen.

She slowly walked through the apartment, taking in the books pulled from the shelves, the pages shredded and torn from their spines, photo frames with spider webs of cracks on the glass, obscuring the images within, flat screen TV's with cracked screens in the living room and the open plan area near the kitchen, the leather sofa cushions sliced through with knives, the decorative pillows ripped open, spilling fluffy feathers all over the room, the wind snaking in through the window catching them in its gentle breeze. Her room, Freen's room, Laurel's room ... they were all the same. Everything that could quickly and easily be destroyed, had been. She was blinking back angry tears by the time they completed their circuit of the place, and Freen just reached out to give her arm a quick, comforting squeeze.

"It's nothing we can't fix," she reassuringly murmured.

Letting out a choked laugh, Becky covered her hand with her own and nodded. And then she called the locksmith.

The locks on the front door were changed, windows were boarded up for the meantime, shutting out the cold as Freen got the thermostat on, warm air blowing out of the vents as they shivered. Becky got started in the kitchen and left Freen to sort out the living room, even though she'd tried to argue that she'd do it herself, feeling wracked with guilt, knowing that this was entirely her fault. Of course Freen insisted though, she seemed incapable of not helping, and she never complained once. Trash bags filled up with torn pages to recycle, and Becky picked up the larger pieces of broken china, carefully setting them in the bag.