Young Writers Society

Day One

I wake up, tangled in threadbare sheets, rubbing my sore head. My fingernails, caked with dried blood, catch my attention. They're not usually long enough to catch any. I'm getting careless.

Somehow, despite the throbbing headache I have, I remember that I planned to shower this morning. I peel off my sticky underclothes leave them on the floor while I crank the rusty dial over the tub. There's a sputtering and somewhat translucent water begins to spray out. I wait, shuddering, for the temperature to rise. When it's ready, I forget my sore muscles and slip in, sinking into the cloudiness.

“Alice! Did you seriously forget to mention you ruined your dress again?” My older brother pounds his fist on the door, yelling through the thick oak wood.

My head throbs. I sink deeper.

“Don't ignore me right now! I keep scrubbing it with straight bleach, but it's hardly made a dent. You know we can't get you another.”

I grit my teeth. So what if I spill a little blood? The whole "angel in white" routine is so stupid. If someone sees a girl in her deadbeat mom's old wedding dress soaked with blood. they're more likely to pay attention than think it's some ghost. Another wave of pain pushes against my skull.

"God Harold, just shut up."

There's a moment of silence before my brother speaks again.

"You're getting sloppier. I can't keep cleaning up your messes."

He sounds calmer but I'm still annoyed. "Isn't that your job?"

I hear him sigh and his footsteps as he walks away. A moment bought of peace.

My brother, Harold, has always been like this, nagging on my every move. I know he wishes he didn't have to deal with me, maybe go off to college like a normal guy his age. But every single thing I do is for this excuse of a family and I wish he would cut me slack sometimes.

I hear the downstairs front door squeak loudly. Peeking over the edge of the tup, I pull the curtain back a little to see Harold storming out to his truck. He's going to listen to old CDs probably. Good. I need the space.

With him gone, I don't really care to prune up for longer than usual. I finish up and towel dry, dressing in a simple shirt and jeans. I remember how last night the chill had through my dress and choose to layer a jacket on top. In our dusty mirror, I easily finger-comb my hair. I spy the empty pain medication on the desser and sigh. I'll just have to deal.

Harold won't come inside for awhile and I don’t think he’s collected last night’s payment, so I decide to take a walk outside. It's technically his job but it's better to not let it sit out there for too long. I tug on the old shoes by the back door and slip out.

Jose left the other half of the money halfway into the woods, buried under an old forgotten wheel. It’s not too far from here so I can make it pretty quickly through shortcuts. I usually use the shortcuts because I tend to get curious looks walking around. The word on the street is that I'm funny in the head. The whole "homeschooled" charade really helps, with its explanation why my family doesn't go out. That is, when I actually had a real family to go out with.

I snag an apple from a random tree, realizing how hungry I am. It crunches deliciously as I walk through a patch of oak trees. The cool air and scattered reds and oranges of the fallen leaves are rather pretty. The farther I sneak out of the public eye, the prettier it is. The paths out here aren’t worn, but I maneuver through the thorn bushes and cobwebs alright. I know this part well.

I’m nearing the hidden spot when I realize that the wheel is gone. A confused panic rushes through me. Had I been slighted? I couldn't have been, Harold had called to confirm the cash's location just before.

The sound of a person trying to soundlessly make their way through the leaves catches my attention. I narrow my eyes. Had Jose been in touch with a partner I never knew about?

“Don’t turn around.”

It’s the fearful squeak of a warning that relaxes me. Alone and without a weapon, I’d probably have no chance against an adult male. But a girl, by the sound of the voice, would be an easy match.

"Says who?"

“Are you here for the money?" the girl asks, ignoring me. "I found it first!”

I keep my voice light. “If you knew what I done to get that money, you wouldn’t be so quick to claim it.”

The girl pauses, trying to understand my words. Trying to decipher whether or not I’m telling the truth.

“What do you mean?” she asks at last.

I ignore her question. "Can I turn around now?"

She considers her next words for a moment.  "In a minute. What did you do to get this money? How do I know it's actually yours?"

"The envelope. It has $4,000 in it."

There's a moment of no response.

"Oh."

I can't hold my laugh. When she speaks again, it's still hilariously serious.

“Let’s say… I split the money with you.”

I laugh again. “Split?”

“Yes. I found it first, I should get half.”

I pause to muse over the idea. Half of Jose’s payment will be enough to keep Harold and I from being hungry for awhile, and if necessary, he’ll find me more work. This girl is actually sort of funny and I don't think I want to leave yet anyways. What’s the harm? Worse comes to worse, I can always kill her. The thought was meant to be sarcastic but it creates a lump in my throat for some reason.

“Alright, sure,” I drop my hand over my shoulder, palm up, “Don't shortchange me.”

After a moment of what I assume to be her counting the bills, I feel a light stack of paper money being set in my hand. I fan it in front of me, checking its legitimacy. When I'm satisfied, I turn around to face the bargainer.

As expected, it's a girl. She's naturally pale from the looks of it, with her farmer's tan easily visible from her sleeveless top and overalls. She's covered completely in freckles. And a long twisted mane of red hair peeks out from under a baseball cap. I stare into her wary and reproachful eyes, admiring them. They're almost silver in this lighting.

She stares back at me, her eyes never settling on one spot. Is she looking at my skin, seeing that the summer tan is already fading? Does she notice the mop of my coal-colored hair is sloppily cut from a time I couldn't hold my anger with it? I watch her peer into my steely eyes, assessing them. Suddenly, I realize that her expression is that of recognition. Certainly, I don’t recognize her.

She straightens up and stiffens in that position. “I know you from somewhere," she says, confirming my suspicion.

“I’m sure you do. Crazy homeschooled girl, right?” It's just to put her at ease but I'm setting myself up for a comment about my absence from any school in the area.

"Sure," she says, not really buying it. She's guarding her expression so I match her blank look. The pause goes on too long.

“Well, what’s your name?”

“Rory.”

I do a double take. “Your name is Rory? What's the story?”

“I’d prefer to hear you tell your story.”

I narrow my eyes. "Are you referring to the money?"

“Yeah. It's really eating at me, how you knew where so much was.”

I don't know why she's so compelling. And I don't know why I say what I do.

“What would you say if I said I killed someone? Many people actually?”

Her expression remains stony. “I would say you’re lying.”

I can feel my stomach sinking but she has no reason to believe me. Clearly, she doesn't. But stupidly, I continue to push. "Why’s that?”

“It isn't believable whatsoever.”

“It isn't. That’s what makes me good at it.”

She adjusts her cap, pulling free a few wavy strands of that brilliant hair. She think I'm joking still, which I suppose is a good thing.

“How old are you?” Her question catches me off guard.

“Seventeen. How old do I look to you?”

“Older. You don’t look so innocent, I guess.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen too. Technically. I'll be eighteen in a week. I was sure you were much older than me.”

"Agreed."

She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. "Homeschooled huh? So, are you actually crazy?"

"Aren't we all?"

She narrows her eyes but her mouth creases into a smile. "If you say so."

"Hear me out. You have dreams, right?"

"What kind of dreams?"

"Ambitions, goals, plans. Those kinds of dreams.  Everything we do is all tied up in the universe. I think anyone who really relies on their dreams are crazy. It's all up to luck man."

She rolls her eyes. "Damn, you really are crazy."

I open my mouth to reply, but something stops me. There was the snap of wood. Heavy, as that of a human's. It's far enough away that I have to strain my ears for it again. Signaling Rory to be quiet, I point in the direction of a figure moving soundlessly over the dry leaves. Someone I know too well.

"Hide!" The words, similar to a hiss, is spat from my mouth. Rory's concerned but she obeys, slipping behind a tree. She waits to see what I'll do next.

I start to hum, quickly continuing the previous noise. I let the lyrics to one of the songs from Harold's recently played CD fill the area. I want to look to Rory, but I force myself to keep my gaze fixate away.

"Alice?" The figure becomes clearer, revealing itself to be my brother. "I told you to leave the collection to me."

"You hadn't done it."

He grimaces and for a moments looks as if he wants to continue the diatribe but changes the topic instead. "You need to keep it down in public. Your singing draws too much attention,"

"Go home, " I sigh, "you can yell at me later."

"Don't forget to put the wheel back, don't want the hunters to grow suspicious." He glares at me one last time, then turns homeward. I watch him leave as he disappears amongst the autumn foliage. Despite his size, I have to give him credit, he's remarkably soundless.

"You do kill people, don't you?"

Rory's voice surprises me, and I'm momentarily stunned. She's kidding I think. I smile, playing along. "What can I say? I'm crazy."