Chasm

T W O

Soft meditative music plays in the background as I'm tidying the library up. The books, stacked in a random pile on the small oakwood coffee table by customers who couldn't be bothered to put them back in their original position, have been placed back on their rightful shelves. I watered the flowers, positioned on the window still near the entrance and opened the drapes, to let a ray of sunshine in. It isn't very sunny today, which is to be expected in January, but the bookshop is starting to smell a bit musky. Nothing a bit of light and a breeze of fresh air from the partially cracked open windows can't fix.

I've always preferred winter over sweaty summer months, something about layering up clothes and hot beverages while it's raining outside soothes my soul. The scent of wet earth and grass drowned out the scent of toxic car fumes and well... No sweaty armpits or sweaty underboobs. Any tight-fitting shirt in the summer is a no-go unless you want to deal with sweat circles underneath your arms in the middle of the day, especially if the fabric is light-coloured.

I'm about to mop up the excess water I spilled on the ground whilst watering the plants when a tall figure enters the shop. Crap, I think to myself. Mother. I forgot to let her know I wouldn't be heading straight home after school. I took a glance at my phone before putting it back in my pocket and noticed 4 missed calls, this isn't good. Although my mother is understanding, she doesn't appreciate it when I don't pick up my cell. She always fears the worst, her motherly instinct still as lively today as it was 17 years ago. Her aura feels threatening.

"I've been worried sick about you!" She exclaims as she takes quick strides towards me. Her demeanor makes my heart skip a beat. "You don't let me know beforehand that you won't be coming home, and then you don't pick up your phone. How am I supposed to trust that you are finally mature enough to take care of yourself if you can't even think for a second to inform me of your whereabouts?"

I swallow the last bit of spit in my parched mouth, my entire body tensing up, and mumble, "I'm sorry..." Standing right in front of me, her hand collides with my cheek. She hasn't slapped me in a while now; after the last incident, I thought she wasn't going to do that again. She had promised she wouldn't. A tear rolls down my cheek and she brushes it away with her slender fingers; the sight of my tears has always annoyed her. She takes a step back and frowns at me, the soft creases in her face sharpening as the skin around her mouth is pulled taut. "You know I don't like it when you make me do things like this, yet you always seem to provoke me. You are almost 18, and what?" She pauses for an instant and blinks slowly, turning her head away from me, her eyes skimming over the shop, "You think you can just go your merry way and do whatever it is you do at any given moment?"

I sigh, another thing that Mother doesn't approve of. "I am sorry. It won't happen again." I trail off for a moment to think about what else I should say. I just wanted to do something nice I guess for Olivia and I got a little carried away. Next time I'll plan it better." My voice is shaky and I feel a bit queasy, I don't like confrontation. I want the earth to consume me whole, I want to escape.

Her physique seems to relax as she hears those words, her clenched shoulders slouching back to their normal position, her arms flailing to her sides instead of disapprovingly crossed in front of her chest. "I'll see you at seven, I got you your favorite dinner. Lasagna, from Mama Mary's. You look tired and hungry. Tell Olivia she can come too if she wants. I'd like a word with her at some point."

"I'll pass her the invitation," I lied, "but I can't guarantee she'll be able to come. I'll be there though, don't worry. Wouldn't want to miss out on it." It, of course, is the lasagna. I love her to death, but when she goes all crazy like this, I don't really like being around her. She scares me a bit.

"Alright then, see you later." She states, making her exit, her curls bouncing as she moves towards the door. I notice how she needs a haircut, the constant bleaching and heat on her hair having frayed the ends. She used to take better care of herself before the divorce, but after Father left, so did any last bit of her self-esteem, it seems. She barely does anything for herself anymore, between work and me.