Maggie
06-25-2013, 07:44 AM
There was no sign outside of the small brick home on Grove Street. Nothing that says anything about the person who lives within or what it is that they do behind closed doors. The house is normal as far as houses go - a one and a half story ranch near Regis, set back off from the road and surrounded with decorative stone and rock in the large front garden and a nearly six foot privacy fence round the back. It was a cheerful bit of property, if properties can be such things, despite the fact that the home was over 80 years old and like a thing that has lived 80 plus years it was sagging in certain places and broken down in others.
The neighbours are becoming acquainted with the hippie that lives at 5395. They aren't fond of her strange male visitors that come and go at all hours of the night, but it's a corner lot and Mrs. Brandon was her only neighbour to the left and she just couldn't be bothered to complain too much. Especially after the brunette had given her an herbal tea that stopped her joints from aching-creaking-cracking when she moved in a few months back.
Marcilene had hoped everyone would be sleeping when she came home bloodied late on Sunday and early into Monday. But not her neighbour; Mrs. Brandon watched Marcilene ride her Vespa to the front of her home and climb off quite gingerly. At first, the elderly woman thought maybe the girl had been off painting again or fiddling with that clay the way she does. But that wasn't it, she saw that when Marcilene walked with a pronounced limp up the long path leading to her front door. No, Mrs. Brandon was sure that was blood all over Marcilene, and it wasn't her own.
She would pretend to tend to her flowers in her front garden while Marcilene did the same. Smiling at the girl and making small talk about the Black Forest fire or the weather. It was always refreshing to talk to the younger female because she didn't seem young at all. There was a wisdom to the way that she spoke and the things that she knew. She would say things like, 'Well, you know the Farmer's Almanac says...' and again, Mrs. Brandon would find herself pleasantly surprised.
But Mrs. Brandon, she couldn't stop herself. Her curiosity could not be helped. She baked a cobbler - peach - and carried it over to her neighbour, a quad cane aiding her steps. She knocked. And knocked. And when Marcilene finally answered she smiled.
"Hello, sweetheart, I hope I'm not bothering you."
No, Marcilene assured the elderly woman. You're not bothering me at all.
"I brought you a cobbler..."
The front door swung open and the old woman (as nosy as she was concerned) hobbled into the small home and Marci closed the door. She had cobbler, after all.
The neighbours are becoming acquainted with the hippie that lives at 5395. They aren't fond of her strange male visitors that come and go at all hours of the night, but it's a corner lot and Mrs. Brandon was her only neighbour to the left and she just couldn't be bothered to complain too much. Especially after the brunette had given her an herbal tea that stopped her joints from aching-creaking-cracking when she moved in a few months back.
Marcilene had hoped everyone would be sleeping when she came home bloodied late on Sunday and early into Monday. But not her neighbour; Mrs. Brandon watched Marcilene ride her Vespa to the front of her home and climb off quite gingerly. At first, the elderly woman thought maybe the girl had been off painting again or fiddling with that clay the way she does. But that wasn't it, she saw that when Marcilene walked with a pronounced limp up the long path leading to her front door. No, Mrs. Brandon was sure that was blood all over Marcilene, and it wasn't her own.
She would pretend to tend to her flowers in her front garden while Marcilene did the same. Smiling at the girl and making small talk about the Black Forest fire or the weather. It was always refreshing to talk to the younger female because she didn't seem young at all. There was a wisdom to the way that she spoke and the things that she knew. She would say things like, 'Well, you know the Farmer's Almanac says...' and again, Mrs. Brandon would find herself pleasantly surprised.
But Mrs. Brandon, she couldn't stop herself. Her curiosity could not be helped. She baked a cobbler - peach - and carried it over to her neighbour, a quad cane aiding her steps. She knocked. And knocked. And when Marcilene finally answered she smiled.
"Hello, sweetheart, I hope I'm not bothering you."
No, Marcilene assured the elderly woman. You're not bothering me at all.
"I brought you a cobbler..."
The front door swung open and the old woman (as nosy as she was concerned) hobbled into the small home and Marci closed the door. She had cobbler, after all.