Six months ago she had caught Knightley. Black limousine parked behind the guardhouse, a strange silver-haired teenager moving around inside.
Kirsten had thought, at first, that it was one of the numerous school kids that liked to come on the property and attempt to trespass. She had ducked low to the ground, cell phone in hand, ready to capture a picture of the culprit.
But it hadn't been a stranger, stepping out - all though the limousine, she thought later, should have given it away. It had been Knightley. Face white, pulling a tight red skirt back over her bare thighs. She looked desperately unhappy and her hair fell in mossy clumps down her back.
The boy had followed. Pushed her up against the tree. Shouted something about money's worth and cheap whore. Drove off into a cloud of smoking dust. Knightley, crying into her sleeve, had collapsed onto a tree stump. She called someone and stumbled for thirty minutes around enough words to let her watching sister know that she had become involved in something she could not get out of.
Kirsten had been so horrified. But she hadn't tried to help. What could she have done?
YOU ARE READING
Straight On Til' Mourning
Short StoryThree hallucinations. Two doors. One decision. With the passing of her starlet siblings, Kirsten - the Minimalist Triplet - escapes Los Angeles for Virginia Beach. Nightly wanders through dark forests and blatant desperation bring her to the Valley...
