Morning all. I hope you are having a fabulous day. I had a dream where I was running away from clowns riding unicycles. My weapon was a bazooka loaded with beanbags shaped and painted like little fluffy penguins. Every time I shot them, the penguin would shout “For the Honor of Stan!” before they exploded. I will be thinking about that the rest of the day now. But that doesn’t stop the morning writing prompt. So timers set and off we go.
Okay, need to find out the mission because there is going to be something in the attic that helps.
Thursday, December 4th: There was a wicked gleam in his eyes.
There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. I knew it didn’t bode well for me. His sense of humor was often cruel and when he looked like this I knew he was about to indulge himself and amuse himself at the expense of his target. Unfortunately, today, I was his target.
“I know how much you enjoy organizing and clearing out,” he said, each word chosen deliberately. “So the attic is all yours. It needs to be emptied so that we can put it into use.” He smiled again, the edges almost sharp enough to slice. “You can keep whatever you like, I’m sure something will prove useful for one of your little projects and nothing up there is anything anyone else wants anyway.”
He paused, waiting for my objections.
“Of course,” I said. I kept my tone and expression polite.
The muscles in his face twitched. “It will need to be completed before Monday morning.” He added. “At eight am we are having it measured.”
Again he paused, awaiting my reaction.
“I understand.” I nodded and kept everything polite. He scowled and turned to the others. I saw his eyes narrow. He glanced back over his shoulder. “You are free to start.”
I was dismissed and he turned to face the others. I knew they would get the spill over since his orders to me weren’t as fulfilling as he expected. I didn’t want to know what they were told. As he more than likely hadn’t planned it as he had with me, I knew it would be less personal.
‘He also likes them more.’
I was the perpetual thorn in his side. The one that didn’t fit. The one who didn’t belong. My mother left the world of the glittering elite to marry an artist. While he was a successful one and extremely well paid, he was from more humble origins. His family was filled with people who made things. Furniture, blown glass, bespoke textiles. Everyone had a skill and a workshop. I grew up moving between my father’s studio and the workshops of various family members accruing my own set of skills I could call on.
To have skills growing up was natural and encouraged. Here, those like Anders found the thought of them insulting. They were however a part of me and often helped me settle. Considering my recent return to my mother’s world, those skills were often what allowed me to hold my tongue when needed. I vented when I stripped down and refinished furniture or worked on another project that required my skills. It calmed me, soothing the ruffled edges and kept me tolerating this group.
‘It is necessary,’ I reminded myself. For now, I needed to be here. I had a mission and could not leave until it was complete.
Ten til Midnight 