((So this is something I had to write in class from a bunch of prompts. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense yet, because I didn't get the time to finish it, but here it is. Maybe I'll finish it later.))
June can barely breathe for the clutter, ducking under one of Licia's jackets. It's black and the stains barely show, but June winces at the missing lowest button. The single fan hums on the table. Linden enjoys most of its cool, and June casts her eyes over to Licia, the approval in her gaze faltering at the sight of her daughter.
Licia slouches beside him, chin propped in her fingers. She hasn't taken off her work uniform yet, and melancholy fills her eyes, old and dark and somber. Licia always looks old, though. Something about her posture, and the way her head is tilted that slight bit down, as if the world has conquered her.
June turns to the window, stained and absolutely filthy. She places her hands on the sill and studies them. Her nails are clear and whole, but her fingers carry dust and dirt. An analogy flits into her mind and she entertains it for a moment. Laughter overtakes her. It's quiet at first but then spills into the entire house. If it can be called a house, June thinks bitterly. The laugh vanishes.
Licia stands and June's eyes flick towards her. The girl turns, banging her elbow on the fridge, and June inhales. "Licia, are -" June trails off as Licia doesn't respond, rubbing her arm for a second before reaching up and hooking the black jacket. The same one June had been pondering before. Licia vanishes into the miniscule bathroom and June rolls her eyes before turning and crouching with Linden.
He coughs as smoke wafts into the room from outside. June bites her lip – she doesn't know how to help him. She curses the unnamed man. It's the eight hundred and sixty-fourth time. Her eyes fix on the blank grey sky and she curses him for the eight hundred and sixty-fifth. He is the only reason she is here. If she knew who he was, she would murder him. There's no question.
Licia emerges, clad now in the black jacket over her new shirt. She takes in June at the window and then breezes past, pushing the door open and stepping out. More smoke coils in the opening. Something stirs in June's belly – it smells wrong – but she ignores it. "Licia, where are you going?"
"Out."
"Where?"
"Out," Licia snaps and closes the door. June holds out a hand, faltering, as if to stop her, or to hold her back and cling to her.
Don't go.
