Tired Mafia Girl

port mafia week day 2: daily life

Written for Day One of @portmafia-week Then & Now | First Missions

The shack stands, tilted, leaning in the direction of billowing winter wind. If it had ever stood straight, Akutagawa didn’t know it; every year seemed to make it lean more and more, and every year the old wood that comprised it seemed to get older and older, rotting through with mold and softening up so that the termites could chew new holes. Its tin roof, the only thing about the shack that’s decidedly hole-less, is dented beyond reason. Akutagawa remembers how a great hail one year nearly battered the roof to pieces, yet shockingly it remained.

Sitting outside before the shack in the dirt, his rear-end cold and numbing, he watches the shack as it continues to sway this way and that in the wind. Back and forth, back and forth. The tin roof rattles and wails with the wind as it rolls angrily over divots and dents its lackluster surface. That same wind burns his lungs—makes him cough up phlegm and blood and who knew what else. He wipes it away on the dirty, ripped pants he wears.

Inside, two people scream at each other. A man too drunk to form coherent sentences, and a woman too round with child to be exerting herself the way she does. Even over the howling winds, Akutagawa can hear their swearing, and the sound of a bottle breaking. Over the wind—he can hear them over the wind, and he’s tired of it; it’s only a matter of time, he knows, before one of the neighbors decides that they’re tired of it, too. All the while, the shack tilts, back and forth. Back and forth.

More than once, he wonders what would happen if the shack finally fell.

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