The Waifs 🥀

＊ 2

13 minute read

🥀

mar. 20

There was the usual noise of our 'community' upon our arrival at sunset. Children were playing outside and a security guard threw Lori and I a penetrating look of disappointment, the one that hadn't dozed off.

Also, I guessed Mughead had told on us, or whatever—considering the joy and victory she obviously felt for my acclaimed doom as she told me Madam Castille wanted to specifically see me.

The path to the 'head office' was a never ending stairwell that seemed longer than the actual three flights I climbed, reaching the second and topmost floor. I shuffled my way through the narrow corridors, dim fluorescents and the familiarity of it all. Turning the door knob, I barged in.

"You, girl, are a pain in my behind."

Madam Castille said this to me, as she eyeballed a letter in her hands with the better part of her brain, paying me little heed.

The woman was ungracefully afflicted with a large pointy nose, slitted black eyes, and a hairy chin mole the size of her bottomless black hole of a heart. She only ever wore her grey hair in a firm bun; so firm that I think she might have enjoyed torturing her scalp. Her squarish face was wrinkled in all the worst places, because she loved to frown. But, I personally never believed she loved a thing.

As 'Caretaker in-chief', her office was rather spacious. However, it doubled as a living space, so that ate up all the free room. Also, the fact she was a chronic hoarder helped nothing. Clutter on her desk and heaps of donations she deemed hers were what took up half of her lair. Her baggage stacked up to the cobwebbed ceiling. The other half were the secrets she kept covered in dusty black bags, her bed, and a bucket of canes that stood menacingly tall beside where she sat.

Her room resembled a cave. A tiny window allowed a slim ray of light that showed dust floating around the air, and everything else was shadowed and drab.

As I stood in a corner, waiting, I felt like a small piece of her furniture in this large room of commotion. That, and I needed to pee. It had been almost 300 seconds since she last said a word, and it seemed she too thought I was a fucking coat rack.

The silence was broken by her chair irritably screeching against the floor as she pushed it back. Placing down the letter on its wrong side, she walked to her square window, looking out with her back to me.

She had a deep, clear voice; however, she didn't particularly sound like a man. It was the kind to capture your attention, since she always used words sparingly. "For how long have you been with us?" She asked.

"..." I stared at my bitten fingernails, since they were more interesting than the back of her head.

She waited for a response in vain, and finally said, "In all my years, you are definitely top three of my most problematic wards."

I smiled, "Thank you."

Ignoring me, she continued, "The only reason I know your name is because of how much trouble you are."

My smile faded. Wasn't she so sweet?

She finally turned to me, giving an empty stare. She looked me up and down. Her face held no emotion, she said all that like she was mindlessly reciting. "At this rate, you'll end up dead, pregnant, imprisoned or useless after you eventually leave. You're already of no use now, anyway."