Accentuate the Accent

Replacement

   ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  -  It's 7:30 in the morning; I can barely type but I'm going to anyway. This'll be an uploading marathon. I'm doing better so why not? I forgot (more like lazed about) uploading at midnight couple days ago, but that's cuz I knocked out super early. SHRUG. Anyway; to the reason you're all here. -  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

There are times when you question the durability of life. Maybe it is elastic, in the way it goes around certain things or people or places; excluding them completely. From obscurity, many can ask life questions and answer them in the same breath. You admire these people.

But... When you look in the mirror you can't help but ask yourself...

"What the fuck?"

You're dressed to impress, but you are not pleased. These circumstances are all wrong. They're too nonchalant. In a way, you feel too close. You're suffocating under the heavy hand of truth and it feels wrong. There's a part of you that wants to strip and throw yourself back into the warm blankets of escape, but you're never one to hide in shame.

Being embarrassed is one thing, you reassure yourself. Being scared of becoming embarrassed is another.

After your quite eventful talk with Abraham yesterday, you'd learned a few things.

Everyone in that house is loud as all hell.

There wasn't a single moment you didn't hear cursing from some mouth.

You're pretty sure Abraham was well accustomed to just how much shit happens in that house.

You figure this is why he needs a babysitter.

You also come to terms with the fact that you are the new babysitter. He requested you come by his abode on a Saturday, to meet the family and learn some ground rules. You'd start Monday afternoon, and stay until at least nine every night. That was as much as you pried from him before he started scolding someone named Eridan. Probably the oldest.

You smooth out your slacks and groaned, taking the train uptown. You almost feel invigorated, going somewhere new. You make a mental note to plan a small vacation that won't damage your already staggering finances.

Once you get off at his stop, you're eyeing every sign and studying them. You wouldn't want to get lost, or inconvenience Abraham with taking you to the right platform. You exit with enough flipping of your stomach to be a street-side spectacle. You'd rather that than painting your body silver or gold. You shake your head and focus.

The instructions in the message were clear enough, and you find yourself down a street with many brick townhouses. Some are terracotta-colored, others are maroon or straight brown. He mentioned the color and the door number and you began searching.

337... Light brown townhouse... You pass a maroon apartment that looks quite oriental with its hanging tassels of red and gold. You finally strike a gaze at the door number 337. There were small plant pots of dirt that littered the steps by the railing. Must have been emptied for the winter, you think. There's a simple knocker under the peep-hole, but you opt for the doorbell. It was ten o'clock; surely someone – if not Abraham himself – was up and about.

Boy, sometimes you hate being right. The door opens to a tall man who has barely anything on. There's a crop top, shorts that are, ah, a little too short and he's wearing socks. She? Oh, it's a little too much for your brain to wrack this early in the morning.

"I don't remember ordering such a hot wake-up call." Female. They have to be! They're very toned up, fleshed out and buff, but the tone of their voice is so light... Airy.

"I'm certainly not your wake-up call... Is... Abraham here...?" They eye you for a moment before nodding their head inward, leaving the door open for you to enter as they remove themselves from the door frame. Should I take off my shoes? I mean, they hurt a bit but, oh my god, is that fireplace made of marble – what THE FUCK IS THAT PAINTING? Sometimes you can't help the anxiety of situations and begin to immediately judge your surroundings.

"There's nothing wrong with me; it's you! And you! And you—"

It's habitual, it seems. You had closed the door behind you and immediately succumbed to the warmth. The fireplace was indeed made of marble, but it was on, and the licking flames could be felt on your face from the foyer. This main hallway seemed to stretch, until you reached the fireplace in what looked like the den. Two archways on each side of the drawn out hallway; stairs began at the end of the last, leftmost door. Peering into the ones at the side revealed a dining room on your left, and a simple living room on your right. You find it's barely decorated. You swallow minimally and watch as the person you yet to know the name of motions you over from the dining room.

You find that the painting of the lighthouse with a (either fruit or) fish market isn't that bad to look at.

"Pops ain't up yet; he requested the day off so he's valuin' sleep. Don't look so stiff; get comfy! What can I get for ya?" This is one of his kids? Their accent was definitely covered up. They were probably born here, but with the influence of their father, you can almost positively hear the accent on certain letters.

Nothing about the foyer indicated a motherly figure. You cleared your throat and, (though you indeed left your shoes by the door), took careful, quiet steps to the dining room. This room led straight to the kitchen; you assumed the doorway looking out into the hallway was the second archway on the left. They had pulled out a chair for you and leaned on the neighboring one.

"Coffee, please... I hope it isn't too much to ask." They had been eyeing you. Not in a disgusting kinda "oh yeah, sweet thing", but a "wow", kinda way. Jesus, any less obvious please? Your face was all kinds of bothered and you weren't too sure how to handle it. This is his child.

"Milk or sugar? I can set it up real nice for ya, if you want me to." You shrug, inevitably just... Wanting your personal space back. They smile and slip into the kitchen. You release a breath you don't realize you've been holding, and slouch.

But as you learned yesterday, there isn't a quiet day in this house. From down the stairs, you hear a very annoyed grunt. Abraham!? You feel almost expectant. When they turn into the kitchen and look into the dining room to see you, you blanched. N-not Abraham...? He has a purple streak of hair down the center of his head and the most bountiful face of freckles you've ever seen. The family is pretty pale, but you never expected to see such features from at least twenty feet away.

He stares at you from the large glasses his eyes hide behind, and then he nudges the person you still don't know the name of and they react. "Dad's friend. Mus' be the reason he's home t'day."

"... She's replacin' Shell?" A part of you freezes over, and there's nothing that'd melt it. Replacing Shelly... It feels surreal, actually. You'd been nothing but a swell barista until Shelly McNamara came along and... Well, she was a hassle in the workplace. A klutz, you remember. Registers freezing up, complaining customers, wrong orders being made. You'd expect after four months you'd get the hand of something if not the idea that working there wasn't made for you.

A waving hand snaps you from your rather salty reverie, and you find the boy with the purple streak is sitting across from you. "You gonna catch flies with yer mouth or are ya gonna act human?"

Now this was more like Abraham's accent. Not nearly as thick, but iconic in the way he words it. You clenched your jaw shut and breathed through your nose.

"Sorry... Um, my name is ______, and yeah... I guess I'm replacing Shelly." The look on his face was indescribable.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  -I had to split this into separate parts so it isn't all mushed into one part. Whoops. -  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)