The Life of Jezebel Firetongue

22

When I awoke the next morning, I felt my eyes begin to water at the memory. It was one of the worst times. You never expect your father to turn on you. I turned to see Jake was still slumbering peacefully before getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

The lights flashed on and I jumped at the sight of my face in the mirror. Dirt and animal blood was encrusted onto both my face and my body. My hair had darkened with muck, tangled endlessly until I looked homeless. I turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower to rinse my hair. The water below my feet ran into the drain a dark brown. As the water ran, I tried to comb through it, but to no avail. I needed real supplies.

I snuck out of the room in order to avoid Jake until he woke up. Had he glanced at my expression, he would have immediately seen that something was troubling me and would have asked questions or tried to fix it. As per usual I preferred to wallow in a pool of my own self-pity for as long as I could.

As I stood at the checkout at a store called Grocery and Goods, I found myself lost in the previous night's dream. Small details like the texture of the bag and the strange tones of my parents' voices floated into my thoughts in small bursts until I was sick to my stomach. I kept thinking about the things that hurt the most, like the fact that my father never talked to me like I was his daughter again after that. By the time I was in front of the cash register, my face reflected such despair that the cashier was pale with concern.

I had picked up my bags and begun to walk out with a hasty "Thanks" when one of the bags ripped and let its contents go crashing to the floor. The sound was deafening, and I found myself in the center of attention. I wanted to pick up my items and run out, but the sheer chaos and unexpectedness of the accident threw me into a sudden panic attack, and I found myself covering my face and trying to count down from ten while my heart raced and I tried to control my breathing.

A hand tapped my shoulder and I jumped, swallowing a sound of shock. "Um...excuse me." It was the cashier from earlier, holding a small canvas bag decorated with trees and birds. "Would you like me to help you?"

"Um," I began to reply when I felt my voice about to crack. I closed my eyes and swallowed back a lump in my throat, waiting a few moments before replying, "Sure."

"Great." He kneeled on the ground and carefully stacked the fallen items into the bag. By the time he stood back up, I had finally pulled myself together enough to speak.

"Don't those bags cost money?"

He shrugged, brushing some of his curly brown hair out of his face. "It's on me."

"No, you really don't have to do that." I reached into my pocket and offered a five dollar bill.

He pushed it back. "Really, consider it a gift. You look as if you could use one."

"But..." A thought struck me as I finally lifted my eyes to his face. He looked incredibly familiar, and I found myself voicing this. "Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

Suddenly, the face that had previously been open and kind shut off from me. "No, I don't think you do," he replied coolly. Then he walked away, leaving me more out of sorts than before.