interlude • i

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V i c  &  A r l i e

V i c  &  A r l i e

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34 years ago

SHE WAS THREE when they first arrived. Her, clutching Arlie's hand so tightly she was surprised her sister's fingers hadn't turned blue yet; Arlie, deathly silent, peering from behind the social worker that led them both into the building.

This was their new home now.

All around, there were stares from the adults. Whispers. Rumours.

It was the father, they said, too unfit to care for himself—not to talk about two young girls. Too torn apart by grief of his dead wife. Too weak-willed.

Always with the 'too'. Too this. Too that. Too much of everything, but never enough to amount to anything. Perhaps that was why he turned to drink. And perhaps that why the drink turned to drugs. And the drugs turned to suicide.

They thought she couldn't hear. That she couldn't understand what they were saying. On the most part, she couldn't. But Arlie did. Arlie remembered everything. And so she told Vicky everything.

That was Arlie, back then: young, knowledgeable yet unwise, and even arguably, a little too frank at times. There were some burdens you shouldn't share with your three year old sister, after all.

Vicky shouldn't have worried. Over the years, Arlie would learn. And so would she. Some things were better off remaining secrets.

Now, Vicky, still young, still innocent, still afraid, looked up at Arlie again.

She was wringing her fingers nervously, her eyes darting to and fro the adults as they spoke and chatted among themselves.

Only eight and she looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Home sweet home indeed.

SHE WAS SEVEN when the realisation sank in: she was going to be alone.

The adoption papers had been signed, everything had been prepared, across the oak table from her sat her new parents.

Arlie's new parents. Not hers.

Vickie wasn't sat among them, exchanging broad grins and making small talk. She was outside, hiding behind a curtain, peering in through a crack in the door.

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