Walk Me Down The Hallway

Chapter 21: This Means War

I don't think I've ever been so confused in my life.

No, it wasn't boy troubles. However predictable I may be, I am not that stereotypical. At least, I like to think positive thoughts about myself like this...

But back onto topic, I was confused. There was nothing normal about this situation, nothing normal in the slightest. I was standing in front of my closet, peering left, and right, and up, and down, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

It being my favourite patterned white and red hoodie.

And it was gone. Nowhere in sight.

Not in my closet, not in my laundry hamper, not even under my bed, where my magic missing socks seemed to appear from time to time. But no, not even there.

My mother had retreated to her room, working on something work related, I was to assume. If there was one thing I had learned in my seventeen years of life, it was not to bother my mother when she had her mind buried in her work. It would bring torrents of anger, and frustration down upon my existence. It also tended to lead to a list of chores that had previously forgotten in her focus on work, and was only too happy to 'suggest' I complete myself.

So in summary, asking my mother where my sweater had run off to would only lead to pain, and suffering, and no matter how much I loved it, I wasn't going to subject myself to this torture.

Unfortunately, that left me in my jeans and tank top, with no clue where my sweater was hiding.

I stomped my foot, huffing, and tugging a light blue long sleeve shirt from a hangar. This was not going to keep me as warm as my sweater would in the tunnels, but it would have to do. Besides, my mother probably wouldn't appreciate having to clean the dust and dirt stains out of white fabric. For some reason, that always seemed to rile her up.

Ridiculously enough, she refused to allow me to do my own laundry. I hesitated to question her reasons, though, because I secretly figured it had something to do with the time I had accidentally thrown half a bottle of detergent into a load of laundry.

That twelve year old version of me hadn't seen a problem in the following aftermath; after all, a room full of bubbles in the middle of summer? A perfect winter wonderland.

It wasn't so for my loving mother, who after spending hours trying to slow down the bubble production, realized the melting bubbles had completely destroyed the solid oak flooring that she loved so much. It cost quite a few more zeros than I have even seen in my possession to fix up that mess. I don't think she had ever quite forgiven me for that one. My father liked to bring it up once in a while, to throw me under the bus while he made an escape from her requests to 'do stuff' and 'fix things'.

After somewhat tossing my bed into a nice neat pile of blankets, I slipped from my room and headed for the kitchen. There was no way I would make it through my tunnel adventures with a stomach grumbling as loud as it was. As it stood, I was a tad scared any excess noise would lead to another tunnel collapse. It sounded foolish, even in my head, but that was not exactly an experience I felt I would like to relive.

There was chatter in the kitchen when I reached the base of the steps. I could barely make out Mal's voice, below the high pitched whine of the lovely lady who had left me to clean her dishes earlier this morning.

I stood a few feet from the entrance of my kitchen, weighing my options. I could (A): walk into the kitchen and hope to god I didn't get pinned down in enemy territory, or (B): turn around and explore the tunnels on an empty stomach.

There was also option (C): which involved walking in and kissing Mal in front of Linda, because God knows that would be hilarious. Not that I would enjoy the kiss though; it was only for 'getting-under-the-skin-of-a-grievous-witch' purposes.

Either way, option A seemed to be my only true option. Especially when my toe creaked on a panel of wood flooring as I attempted to turn and walk away.

"Analee, that you?"

There were not enough descriptive words to state how much I hated this man right now, for his ability to notice the tiniest sound in a house that whistled more than it was quiet.

"No, just me, a lowly mouse, heading back to my den!" I squeaked.

"Right. Get in here, lowly mouse, before I feed you to the cat."

It really was a long shot, I suppose, hoping he'd just let me leave.

"Don't kid Mal, no cat would step near her," Linda snuffed. I could practically imagine her flipping her hair and leaning forward suggestively. She was probably sitting on the countertop, in scanty clothing, hoping to draw Mal's attention in a southward direction. It was also very likely working quite well.

I snorted, and took the step forward to round the corner, and I froze.

I prided myself on how accurately I could predict situations, just from knowing the bare essentials of a person and their behavior. I wasn't bothered by the fact that Linda was doing almost exactly as I had thought. I wasn't bothered by how she was flirtatiously wrapping her legs around his waist. I wasn't even bothered by the large stack of dirty dishes in the sink, that undoubtedly I would be expected to clean.

What I was bothered by; however, was the fact that long skinny arms currently reaching for Mal's hands were clad in a lovely red and white fabric. My lovely red and white fabric. My missing sweater.

"Have I mentioned how beautifully this colour brings out your eyes?" Mal smiled, tugging on the long sleeve of my shirt. She simply giggled and pulled at a loose thread. I could see the hole beginning to form already.

That's it, forget the damn tunnels.

This means war.