the sinner; h.s (au)

there aint no rest for the wicked

P A R T O N E

- 1986 -

"Ella!"

Her mother's shrill voice echoed through their three-story property to no avail. Mary Dalton had spent the last half hour being desperately in need of an extra kitchen hand as she baked apple strudels–something that had become a sort of Dalton moving tradition. Just this year alone the Daltons had dutifully moved nine times for the demanding military career of Ella's father Joe. This placement was supposed to be more permanent than all the others, but time could only tell.

Upstairs and unwilling to come down from her room, 17-year old Elizabeth Dalton smacked her cherry gum while flipping mindlessly through the pages of the latest Vogue catalogue. As she laid on the bed, her long legs flailed back and forth in the air while her loose long dark hair sprawled across her shoulders and back. The strawberry lip gloss shimmered on her lips as she hummed mindlessly in ignorance of her mother's annoyance. The truth was that Ella was still irritated about this sporadic move in particular. She'd grown significantly more popular at her old school because she was going steady with the football team's ace quarterback. Moving was social suicide for someone who had gained overnight popularity.

"Ella! I said down. Now!"

"I'm coming, Jesus!" Ella groaned in annoyance. She rolled off the bed and grabbed her bag from off the floor. As she ran down a flight of stairs, she sped past her father.

"Morning, Daddy," she quickly chirped; Joe chuckled amusedly at the sight of his daughter racing before him.

The warm sunlight shone through the large French windows in the living room, richly spilling into the kitchen. As baked rows of apple strudel cooled on a tray, Ella's mother decorated them with crushed walnuts, honey and some powdered sugar. The scent of fresh apples and cinnamon filled the new house, replacing the dull smell of cobwebs and wood with a gentle and pleasant aroma. Mary pulled the last batch out from the oven, finally having baked a total of twenty apple strudels. She intended to gift five of her pastries to their three closest neighbours. There were only three residences within half a mile of Daltons: two similarly-styled suburban, three-story houses, and an odd regal-like mansion by the hillside. Despite her husband's objections, Mary insisted someone must be living there since the grass was bright green and well-trimmed.

Mary disapprovingly shook her head when she noticed her daughter running into the kitchen. "How many times do I have to call you? And what in God's name is that stuff on your lips? I told you to quit wearing lipstick. You're still too young for it."

Ella rolled her eyes and peeled open an orange, mocking her mother's incessant nagging when she looked away.

"It's lipgloss Mom, not lipstick. And I'm nearly seventeen," Ella reminded her again. "I can almost-kind-of drive now."

Mary frowned, exasperatingly throwing her hands in the air. "Joseph, talk to your daughter," she said pleadingly as her father walked in shortly after.

"You're always going to be a kid to us, Ellie," her father chortled as he heaved a huge, sloppy, itchy kiss onto his daughter's cheek. Ella groaned in disgust, scratching where he had kissed and Mary shook her head, still frowning.

"And that looks delicious," said Joe playfully to his wife, attempting to ease the tension by nicking a strudel. Mary quickly slapped his slippery fingers away with her spatula.

Joe winced, pulling back his hand sheepishly. He took the car keys from his wife and kissed her goodbye. "Come on, Ellie. I'll drive you," he said.

Ella rolled her eyes at his repetitive use of her old nickname. She stole a strudel off the cooler pile, and beamed, "Thank you!" at her mother's annoyed face before running after her father.