Try Me

Prologue

Word Count : 10,808 words

December 24 - 5:37 am

I jadedly traced the glossy, leaf-like patterns twinkling elegantly on the frosted window. I would normally take a moment to admire something with this rare type of beauty, but due to my constant (and increasingly palpable) shivering, I reluctantly prevented myself from doing so. Cutting, bitter gusts of air vehemently poured from the rattling air vents. Every time that I breathed, there always seemed to be a plume of white that waited to escape from my mouth.

Power-outages are always fun.

"Emma— go ahead and try to light the fireplace again," the woman— who I had grown to know as both my mother and boss— would repeatedly tell me with her heavy Jersey accent, each time with a somewhat worrisome tone. Her permanently furrowed eyebrows and dark, sunken eyes made her look years older than her 39-year-old self.

I, on the other hand, still had a bit of a 'baby-face.' Since I was in those awkward, hormonal teenage years of my life, I had to throw all of those "you can't tell me what to do" and "nobody understands me" moments out of the window, and try to find a way out of this situation.

"Yes ma'am..." I muttered under my breath, standing up from the decrepit leather chair. I'm surprised that thing is still standing— with it's peeling red leather and splintering wood, it looks as if it could collapse at any given moment.

Now, for the extremely, SUPER easy routine

That was sarcasm.

My mother, for some unbeknownst reason, decided to meticulously place the matches on top of an already ramshackle bookshelf. One wrong move and the entire structure could collapse, and everyone would know when (and how) it happened. You see, it was sort of like a more complicated game of Jenga— we were all taking turns until when it would break down on itself, and the loser had to clean the mess up... And face the humiliation that would come along with it.

It may sound like a little fun, but it was always a tedious mission that I was somehow expected to accomplish by rote. I'm surprised the amount of rules and steps I came up with haven't become a published novel.

1) Move over either the vintage, flower-print chair from Great-Aunt Florence, or the flower-printed sofa. Either one of the following will do. Use either of the armrests as leverage for step 3 and 4.

2) Prop up the wooden floorboard next to the office chair, then create a makeshift bridge as extra support.

3) Use the wooden shelf on your right to support yourself as you strategically move to the next step...

Get the point? Don't worry... Me neither.

My own complacent thoughts corrupted my mind, distracting me from the series of snickering that came from behind me.

"Emma..." the happiness-annihilating scumbag of an employee mused with his prominent British accent, not even attempting to hide his near fit laughter. "Do you... Erhm, need any help?"

"What's it to you?" I retorted with a scoff, continuing my unsuccessful attempt to grab the matches. "You've obviously done enough already."

"C'mon, Em," he said, making his way underneath me. I squirmed uncomfortably and nearly punched him in the face, mine not a shade lighter than crimson. "I'll just hold you up."

"Harrison, no!" I said sternly. "I can do it my—"

Harrison laughed like a bell, his lips curling into a smile to reveal a dimple in his left cheek. He didn't take my advice to heart as his hands made their way around my waist, causing me to squeal in surprise and flail around like a fish out of water.