when: March, 2011 – flashback where: the Sandoval House with: @willofoak
The garden and the porch have seen better days – but her car’s parked out front, and even if it isn’t a home, it’s hers. That’s better than nothing, right? Right. Has to be.
(Forceful optimism is beating the screaming thing inside her with a hammer, telling it to shut the fuck up. This is fine. This will be fine. You have to be fine. You have to do this. You have to do this, or else.)
It’s a satellite neighborhood with little in the way of actual neighbors, but that suits her fine. She’s nodded at them, on occasion; even tried for a smile, the other day. This is fine. This has to be fine. She made a stupid decision two nights ago at that bar in town – Last Drop, ‘s that it? – and her knuckles are bruised for it, but otherwise, she’s good. Her reputation might not be, but when has it ever been? (Back in Tennessee, guilt supplies from the gnarled web of knots inside her head. Wasn’t good, but it was decent. She stifles it.)
Dusk’s falling over Blackrock, the last remnants of spring heat fading from the cracking asphalt. She’s just brought in the bag of groceries: sets it down on the kitchen table, a lone light above keeping her company. The ring that hangs from the chain around her neck feels heavy. She watches the pine trees from the window; watches them transform into looming shadows as daylight fades–
and then someone’s knocking on the door, because the doorbell’s not fixed yet.
“Hi,” she says, green eyes taking stock of the stranger on her doorstep. Some distant, locked-away part of her tells her to take note of that face – and the sensation of guilt from before just screams. Polite. You can do polite. Mar clears her throat. Hopes this isn’t another stranger come to present their want for gossip as neighborly care. “Can I help you?”
