Split

Chapter 6 - Ms. Straught

An elegant, gothic-looking house made of faded brown brick accentuates a kempt path to the front door. The sun shines through the clouds, bringing out little gold flecks in the remarkably pruned bushes and miniature trees, though they must have been artificial considering their rich green in the face of autumn's ambers.

The house, I will admit, is nice, with all its arches and glossy squares for windows and the washed-out bricks, which I associated with the patches of yellow-green that were scattered through all the real trees. The real trees, which had turned orange and gold like real trees were supposed to, and very unlike Ms. Straught's, the woman who's keeping us for however long.

Unfortunately the same could not be said of Ms. Straught, who seemed to think the world was a freezing wasteland and she was the president--- For reasons I will never understand, she made sure that we were all aware of her disbelief in monarchies--- without an ending to her term.

She was a plump lady with a straight, conserved posture and very, very straight auburn hair pulled back into a very, very tidy knot. She also refused to give us her full name, and immediately judged us by our clothing, calling Robin a punk, Amber a slut, Kimberly a 3-year-old, and I, she insisted, resembled a mop. 

A mop.

She said I resembled a mop.

Now, as we walk down the polished hardwood halls, she continues to jibe me about my hair and how it is far too long and sloppy-looking.

Robin pats my head in what I choose to consider a consoling manner.

I pout.

"... And this is Reginald Thomson, my great-great-great-gruncle, who was a very prominent loyalist of the crown." Ms. Staught says, stopping at a portrait of a very old man indeed, and gazing at it fondly. 

"Gruncle," Robin repeats under her breath with a little smirk.

"I thought you weren't supportive of monarchies?" Amber says in her sweetest voice, the one she reserves only for puppies and people who have gone clinically insane.

"I'm not." Ms. Staught replies. Her expression hardens as she pulls a thin silver knife from the back of her blouse and plunges it deep into the man in the portrait's neck. She then takes a paintbrush from a little antique table off to the side, dips it a pot of red oil paint, and splatters it over the framed image. She smiles. "There we are."

Even Robin is lost for words.

Meanwhile, Ms. Straught walks disappears into a small room, fishing a guitar out from under a table in the corner, and tosses it carelessly to me. "There you are, mop boy," she says with a smile, "You look like you play.

I stared won at it, dazed and very glad I managed to catch it. "No, actually," I stammer. "I don't know."

She smiles. "Then learn." 

And she's stalked off again.

Kimberly skips merrily along after her like she hasn't just seen the lady stab a portrait in the neck and delicately paint blood over it using oil paint.

And here I was thinking us circus people were strange.

Robin raises an eyebrow at Amber and I and grabs both of us by the arms. "Come along now mop boy and slutty girl, we have work to do! Paintings to slash and guitars to well nigh destroy..." she wheezes in a frighteningly accurate representation of Ms. Straught.

"Don't call me that, Robin," moans Amber, but allows herself to be dragged away anyhow.

By the time we've caught up with Kimberly and Ms. Straught, they've already begun setting the table in the kitchen.