Uncle Charlie ᵃᵘᵗᵒᵖˡᵃʸ

the sound of silver against porcelain greeted her as she entered the kitchen. for a moment, she’d forgotten his existence, sleep having erased the memory him at the top of the stairs the previous night. imagine her dismay as india found herself accompanied not by the housekeeper, but HIM and his leering smile. 

❛ where’s mrs. mcgarrick? ❜ she responded, ignoring the cup of coffee in his hand. crystal blue eyes searched the kitchen, finding no sign of the housekeeper’s presence. how unusual. ❛ she didn’t make BREAKFAST. ❜

                    The thrum of his heart had grown heavier since her arrival, she was his only reason for being here, and he sought to make up for sorely lost time; or rather, the time he had been grossly neglected. He was her UNCLE, what kind of family keeps each other apart?

‘Who the hell are you to know what I do or don’t                                    mean?’

[ she snarls. myrtle wasn’t crying for help, she wants to be   left alone. she’s angry, blindingly so and does not stop to   consider that he’s being kind. another strangled noise is   ripped from her throat and she sighs, looking at the mess. ]

‘I was feeling upset, I wanted to make cookies. It’s                                    what I used to do before–’

[ before she killed two people, not that she regrets it. indeed,   her only regret was being caught. it’s damn inconvenient,   that’s for certain. myrtle looks at the man again, blinking   once, then twice. ]

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.’

                    “Are you going to pick that up..?” Eyes stare at the broken shards of glass scattered across the floor between them, capturing the light to blind him; they leave him uncomfortable, and so he fails to divert his attention away from the jagged edges without some force on his own behalf. 

                      He blinks thrice when casting his gaze towards her, momentarily baffled and forgetting the conversation at hand. Brows furrow as he attempts to set his mind back on track, and lips part as though eagerly awaiting his own response.

                   “Maybe you’re not good at baking?” The bewilderment could not be clearer in his voice, and a hand raises to gently tap the palm of his hand against his head. “Sorry... no it’s fine. I should have approached it better.” He acts a new person, his childlike personality dispersing to expose the old Charlie beneath. He grins, and moves into the room to explore the cupboards – he seeks a brush and pan. 

open

[  myrtle’s sobbing to break her heart. she’s sat in the kitchen,   on the floor with her back against the cleaning supplies   cabinet. flour’s all over her previously nice skirt, the bowl it   was in smashed, all in pieces on the floor.

  myrtle was attempting to bake with a chest full of anger and   sadness, a bad combination in the long run that often ends in   tears and ruined outfits. today is no different, except for the   fact that she isn’t alone. she looks up, her mouth hanging   open just slightly.

  she giggles, and it’s more painful to hear than her crying. ]

‘God, I wish I was dead.’

                        “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

                      The noise had frightened him, it was usually far too peaceful and quiet here, and the shrill that had erupted from the kitchen had resulted in a jolt of his arm; he’d been writing a letter to India, the traditional pen and ink medium, and the pen had scrawled an ugly line across pristine paper. He’d gasped, and slammed his fist upon the table in protest, before setting off to seek the source of the ruckus, and demand it desists at once. 

                       But the sight had shocked Charlie, he thought her a pitiful mess. Eyes survey the broken shards of glass that surrounded her, but he lingers within the door frame; he can’t muster the will to near the shattered glass immediately.

                   “Good morning India.” He’d waited in the kitchen for her arrival, slowly preparing the cup of coffee her mother had requested ten minutes ago until she appeared. The teaspoon clinked against the side of the china, and rocked side to side upon the countertop after being abandoned; the motion went unseen to Charlie, who’s attention lay solely upon India.

                     Outstretched arms offered the cup towards her, the heat would persist in just burning tanned fingertips until taken from his hand, but he did not jolt nor hiss once the sensation became too much to ignore. “Take this out to your mother, would you? She’s in the garden.”