Page 2 of The Tattered Gloves
THE LONELY BUS rambled on, rattling down the dusty road, as the idle passengers fell into a false sense of security under the dim lights above.
Stupid fools.
As others on the bus slept in awkward positions, curled around each other like wolves, leaning against the cold, dark window, desperate for a few moments of peace, I sat rigid and alert, keeping a lookout on my surroundings.
So trusting they were. So naturally inclined to lie back and let the world take care of them.
I pulled my duffel bag close to my chest and rested my head against the back of the seat, letting my eyes close for the briefest moment. My back ached from sitting and leaning back, so allowing myself one second of peace released a bit of tension that had been creeping up my spine.
The subtle jostling of the road never seemed to cease. Not since we’d left the city.
It was different — this road. I could feel it in the way my body moved back and forth as the miles rushed past us.
The country.
That was where I was headed. To live with an aunt I’d never known existed until yesterday. In a matter of days, my entire life had been turned upside down, and I hadn’t had a single choice in the decision.
The joy of being a minor.
Sitting upright once more, I looked out the window, noticing the sheer number of trees that passed by. Country roads seemed more constant than the city roads I was accustomed to. They were rough and rocky, but it gave the bus a kind of movement that reminded me of a baby carriage — gentle and even.
In some cities, there was no such thing as constant, and that included roads. With their deep potholes and quick patch jobs, they could take a passenger on a wild ride with no regard for the outcome. I should know. I’d grown up in the slums of Washington, DC, and I had the scars to prove it.
Looking out the window, I found myself smiling. Maybe a smirk was more accurate. Roads were sort of like people. There were those who were gentle, maybe a little rough around the edges, like the dusty road I was traveling down at this very moment in time.
And then there were the city roads. Patched and bandaged beyond repair. So full of holes and problems, it was hard to decide whether it was even worth repairing.
Which road was I?
I took a glance out at the darkened path that went on for miles ahead of us, and then I looked down at the bright red gloves that covered my hands.
I was the road that no one wanted to walk on. The scary alley everyone avoided.
Because there was damaged, and then there was just plain broken.
And I was one step beyond all that.
MY MOM HAD never been much for organization.
Unless it came to her business.
Yes, she actually called it that — herbusiness. Even though she was paid in all cash and her wardrobe mainly consisted of… well, never mind. But, beyond her business, the woman couldn’t remember to stock the fridge with food, pay the electricity bill on time, or do any of those other pesky things adults had to deal with.
So, I didn’t know why I was surprised to find myself alone under a curtain of rain two hours after I was dropped off on the outskirts of a deserted town in the middle of nowhere.Did I even have an aunt, or was this my mother’s desperate attempt to get rid of me for good?
As fall hadn’t completely settled in Northern Virginia, the sticky air of summer still lingered, making me both cold from the rain and sweaty from all the humidity around me. Looking around for the tenth time as I huddled under the pathetic excuse for a rain shelter, I finally gave in, grabbing my phone and taking matters into my own hands.
With nothing more than a single lamp illuminating the tiny bus stop, I wasn’t about to let this place be my home for the evening. Using the prepaid phone I’d bought months ago with my own money, I fired up Google in a last-ditch effort to find a way out of this mess.
Within minutes, I found my answer.
And, soon, headlights appeared, and a tall, slender woman who mirrored my mom in her likeness — minus the fake boobs and horrible wardrobe — stepped out of a car to greet me. She looked younger, livelier, but still, it was all there. The baby-blue eyes, the flawless cream skin, and that megawatt smile. My mother only awarded it every so often, usually when it involved me doing something that benefited her. But when she did? I would feel like the most important person in the world.
It was probably why men always kept coming back for more.
I shook my head, rearranging my thoughts, and gave a stiff wave. My aunt — her name was Addington — seemed a little taken aback by me, her eyes briefly pausing on my covered fingers and my less than welcoming appearance.
I knew what she must be thinking.Who wears gloves in September in Virginia?
