The Book Of Little Adventures✨🦊

On The Steps

Author's Note: From here in out i will include both a trigger warning (since every story is different in its contents) and a genre, so you may know the feel of the short story.

Thank you for reading!

- L. O'Brandie

Warnings:
Anxiety/Violence/Mentions of sexual assault

Genre:
Young Adult/Drama

Never in her life had she seen such an act of brutality. The rattling of cheap locker doors. The grunting and growling, the victim's groans as he slumped facedown on the floor. His blood pooling around him. The maiming of another's face.

The fight shook the whole school down to their cores, teachers and all. Lumbermen High had its fair share of fights, but what she, and many others had witnessed was no petty squabble.

Her brow pinches with worry. She sits on the steps out front of the school, long after her fellow students walked home, took the bus, or grudgingly dipped into their parents car. She hugs her knees to her chest, backpack squished between, and chin resting on top. Father hasn't shown up. But he's always late. He always forgets her.

It's getting colder. A front sweeps over. Honey Town is never a warm place, the dull clouds part only on occasion in the depths of summer. She sticks her nose high. It rains when it doesn't snow, the scent gives it away. She could watch the weekly forecast, but that means being around father by choice. No. Her good sense for oncoming danger is all she needs to tell the weather. There's no need to pause her stupid little cartoons, or put down her stupid little books, when she can trust her gut.

It was idiotic to wear her favorite dress, but it's not her fault, father said mother would be picking her up today. Mother used to love picking her up. She nuzzles her nose into her backpack, the rough material hurts her face. Mother taught her everything; Makeup, aesthetics, outfits, walking, talking. She always tried to out-do mother with style and looks, and she would try to do the same.

Mother stopped picking her up. She stopped talking to her. It's been weeks since she's put on makeup.

She hugs tighter and digs her nails into her calves. Circumstances change, people change. All she can do is change too. "Grow up," her friends are tired of hearing her talk about home. Did they run out of ways to comfort her, or is she hopeless? It's neither of those, she knows it but denies the truth; They've changed too. They don't care.

Thinking about something else would be healthier.

How's the sky? It's grey, boring, and it has begun to rain. She knew her nose was right.

How's the view? Pines crowd every direction. Looming, rigid, they cast shadows like father. There is only a split where the road connects to the school parking lot. It's been an hour since a car's gone by, and the lot is nearly empty. Three cars, she knows them by name.

A red Ford F-150, brand new. It's Principal Graham's. A steel grey 79' Corvette, that belongs to Mrs. Fletcher, Graham's secretary. Everyone knows how she can afford that ride, and her husband's fine with it, so long as he gets hush money too. Then, a tan Ford Pinto, Mr. Smith's car...She feels herself shaking at just the sight of his car. Few people could make her rather be with father, and Mr. Smith was at the top of that list.

He's touched a lot of other girls, and she's been lucky he hasn't come after her yet. But she's seen him staring, watching her from the other ends of the halls. His droopy, lazy eyes etched themselves into her nightmares.