Sinister

Chapter-10

Grandma's house, snug as it was, felt more like a cramped cabin with both Brad and me squeezed inside. Every space, from the kitchen to the sitting room, melded into one, save for the minuscule bathroom where legroom was a luxury. Grandma's penchant for small things, cultivated since childhood, extended to everything she owned-even her car, which my dad could never squeeze into.

"Where's your mama at, you rascals?" Grandma brandished her frying pan, poised to whip up some eggs for Brad, his least favourite treat. Her speech was a blend of slang and mystery, a linguistic maze for my comprehension.

"Leaving her kids for me to babysit? What a drag," she muttered, eyes narrowing as if sizing us up.

"Why don't you ask her then?" I retorted, rolling my eyes. Grandma was as slippery as an eel, with a side serving of witchy vibes.

"I was hoping for a chill day, till you two showed up out of nowhere."

"Grandma, that's not very nice," I chided gently.

"Well, your mother better leave some dough," she grumbled, "or how am I supposed to feed two hungry mouths?"

This ritual unfolded each time we visited Grandma, or in our current predicament, lived with her. Yet, as quickly as the storm brewed, Grandma's mood would clear, leaving no trace of the turbulence. Pouring the overcooked egg onto a plate, Grandma presented it to Brad, who recoiled in disgust. "Yuck!"

"Don't you make that face, young man," Grandma warned, her voice a sharp rebuke. "Or I'll shove it down your throat."The cacophony of Grandma's voice grated on my nerves, compounded by the confined quarters we shared. "I should've stayed at Mrs. Rose house," I mumbled, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Attempting to cut the egg into manageable pieces, Grandma's hand was met with resistance from Brad, who pushed it away too forcefully, causing the fork to clatter to the floor.

"Bless you, you rascal," Grandma grumbled as she stooped to retrieve the fork. A sudden cry pierced the air as her back gave out.

"Ow! My back!"Rushing to her aid, I helped her to the sofa, where she reluctantly accepted rest. "You ungrateful rascals," she muttered, a mixture of pain and disappointment etched on her face.

"Maybe you should rest, Grandma," I suggested softly, tucking a blanket around her. She protested weakly before succumbing to slumber.

"Much better," I sighed, relieved by the sudden calm.

"Brooke, I want to go home. I miss mom," Brad's voice broke through the silence.

"I know, but we can't stay there. It's not safe," I reassured him, trying to keep my own fears at bay.

"But mom's still there."

"Don't worry, she'll find us a new place soon," I promised, hoping it would ease his worry. As Brad tentatively nibbled on the egg, he pondered aloud, "Why do old women look like witches?"

"Because most witches are old women," I replied, mustering a smile. "Come on, let's get out for a bit. We don't want to end up like Grandma, do we?"

With a giggle, Brad agreed, and together we ventured out into the world beyond Grandma's cramped confines.

The bustling neighbourhood stood in stark contrast to our quiet streets. Children raced along the sidewalks, and a multitude of street stalls enticed passersby with tantalizing food offerings. Intrigued, I approached a stall selling cotton candy.

"Brooke, I want the blue one," Brad exclaimed. The vendor, with a deft hand, added blue stones to the machine, producing a soft, blue cotton candy stick for Brad. As dusk approached, the street retained its vibrant energy.