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☾ 𝑇𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇𝑌
A knock sounded from the door at about four o'clock, an hour after Polly was due to crack open her afternoon bottle of whiskey. It had been opened an hour ago, left empty by the fire that roared in the hearth.
Polly wondered who it could be as she staggered to her feet, fingers shaking in her own grip. Micheal hadn't been to the house in a week and wasn't due to visit until the following morning. Too busy working for her bloody nephew, she bet. But Polly wouldn't think of that. The rest of the boys rarely visited, too busy in their own knew worlds of the country, with their wives and children and money. The only other person who would come to see her, was Ada, and she was all the way in America. Working for Tommy too.
Polly remembered the knock at the door and hurried toward it in the way that elderly ladies did: heels almost stuck together and knees out turned. She didn't bother to look through the peep hole- Polly was too old to be bothered by the dangers of an unknown knocking at the door- but fumbled with the knob, her hands not seeming to make contact whenever she tried. The door had barely swung open as her scratchy voice barked out.
"What do you want?"
From the edge of her peripheral, Polly saw the person lean into their heels, as if taken back by her rude exclamation. Polly sighed, rubbing her hands over her eyes that were no doubt smudged with her charcoal liner. She hadn't realised how bright it was despite the ticking of the clock edging toward evening. In fact, Polly couldn't even remember the month, so it may well have been summer. No one seemed to want to help her keep track these days, not even her own son.
"I'm... I'm looking for Polly Gray."
Polly looked up, raising her chin defensively. She didn't recognise the girl at first as her eyes finally lay upon the person who stood by the door. The girl was perhaps no older than sixteen, her frail figure the only giveaway to her younger age, as despite her lack of curves, her face was aged, lines creasing around her mouth as if from a constant frown. But there was a lightness to her eyes that Polly was able to stare at during the prolonged silence in which the girl didn't answer. Eyes that seemed so familiar...
"What do you want with Polly Gray?"
The girl let out a breath, blinking toward her gaze as if she'd been thinking the exact same thing that Polly had. But it was clear she knew more.
She swallowed. "She's my mother."
Polly didn't gasp or startle or cry at first. She simply stared at the girl, staring at her with sudden cold eyes, a gaze that could have turned to stone. Now that the words had been said, Polly could see no one but her daughter, her precious SallyAnna, in front of her, even though she knew she was dead.
Rage burned from her heart, colouring her cheeks like staining blood, digging crescents into her hands from bitten but sharp nails. How could a person do such a thing?
