Crooked Smile (WINNER of the MJFA'S 2017)

Chapter 3 - Blue Bottom, Red Chimney

The neon lights flickered and sprang to life, bathing the outbuilding used as a garage in an oddly bright light given the time of day. It was a long-stretched room with a wide double-winged door painted in green. Behind the door, they had to maneuver the bicycle past two cars before it became spacious. A long line of metal chests of drawers stood along the right wall, and tools of all sorts were lining the left or handing from the walls all around. The floor was swept clean.

Being lit up in the dead of night, the place looked strange, as if it had been startled out of its sleep.

"What does your father do for a living," Michael asked, and as Marilyn turned to him, she found him looking around with his mouth slightly open.

"He's a businessman. But he enjoys fixing things that are broken. It's a hobby. Sadly, he doesn't have a lot of time for fixing stuff, though. But he prides himself that there isn't a tool he doesn't have."

"I believe that instantly!"

Marilyn put the bicycle in a corner at the very back of the garage.

"Is it really okay, if we just leave it here? Won't your father be upset, if we just put something in his place?"

"I don't think it's in the way over here, and he probably won't even notice it any time soon. Now, let me have a look at you."

Michael was taller than her by about a head, and had an unusual face with high cheek bones and soft eyes, dominated by a wide but fairly short nose. His dark skin was scarred by acne, and he looked worn out. His face had an ashen tint to it, and above his right eye he was smeared with dried blood. He stood there quietly while she inspected him in the cold neon lights, but he kept closing his eyes. When she turned his palms up and they both looked at them, he drew a shaky breath through his teeth. He held his hands stiffly, as if they didn't really belong to his body.

"Let's go and clean this, okay?"

He nodded, but when Marilyn looked at his face, she had the feeling he would have agreed to anything.

In the ground floor bathroom, Marilyn sat him down on the toilet lid. "Alright," she said, as if talking to a child, crouching down in front of him. "How do you feel?"

"My head aches. And I'm a little dizzy, too." Helplessly, he reached for his head. "And I feel a little sick..."

"Where did you hit your head?"

He indicated an area above his right temple, and when she rose and touched him there, he flinched. Gently, she parted his hair.

"You've quite a bump, but it's just a minor cut." Marilyn sank back into her crouching position and looked up at his face. "I still think it would be better to call an ambulance." She remembered seeing him fall, and felt cold recalling it.

"Please, just let me off the hook..." he said weakly.

"Okay. I'll treat your injuries, and then we'll see what we'll do."

He nodded with a minor movement of the head giving her a crooked smile. And that smile got to Marilyn in a way that she couldn't quite place.

"I'll get you something for the headache first..."

Through the torn fabric of his pants, Marilyn could see blood still slowly running down his shin. Kneeling down, she carefully rolled the pant leg up to his thigh. The wound was dirty, and the blood had started to trickle onto the white sock he was wearing in his sneaker. She took off his shoe and sock and placed a towel under his foot. Then she got gauze from the medicine chest and gently laid a piece onto the dirty wound. Due to the bleeding it stuck by itself and stopped more blood from running down his leg.