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Not nothing but trouble (workingtitle)

This is a tiny piece of a larger story I'm writing. A memory of one of the main characters.


She was playing with matches. He'd left them carelessly lying about. Like he always did. He cared for nothing but his booze and his smokes. He'd been gone for a long time already. She knew that when he came back he would stink. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of that. The matches smelled nice when she struck them on the side of the box. The scent made her smile. It made her think of good things, she just couldn't remember what those things were, just the feeling they'd left behind. She was hungry. Her brother DaniΓ«l was not home yet. She looked at the clock that was hanging on the wall and tried to concentrate. The two hands of time stood very close together on the bottom side of the clock, to the left. She started to be nervous. DaniΓ«l always protected her and he wasn't home yet. Maybe daddy would come home sooner. She struck another match so maybe the good feeling would stay. Then she heard the door slam shut. She quickly hid the struck matches under the carpet, but he'd already entered the room and she knew she was going to be very sorry. That's what he called it. Very, very sorry. But I'm already sorry daddy, very, very sorry.

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