Macabre: the Gothic Boutique [3rd draft]

These Mortal Woes pt. 1

     A/N: The picture of that girl (no clue who she is) is what inspired Macabre and Annabelle's character.  Just click the over button.                                    

                                                      Macabre: the Gothic Boutique

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I frowned at the purple and black flyer stuck to my car windshield. Snatching the flapping paper, I stepped back, eyeing my car, or Smo as I called it. The truth is that my car was evil, evil to the core. Christine had nothing on Smo.

I lifted the garish advertisement and read it again. "Three hundred—" I tried to whistle, but it sounded more like a fart. I glanced over my shoulder making sure no one had heard my lame attempt. "Are these people high?" I mumbled.

Smo had holes and cracked leather seats that pinched. Passengers had to straddle either side of the floor or risk losing a foot. The AC spat out a molding, blue cheese smell. If I wanted music, I had to sing to myself. Now maybe the people distributing this flyer didn't know that, but the gaping holes and rust spots on the outside of the brown death trap were obvious. Either they didn't have eyes, or they were on some serious shit.

The paper crinkled as I fisted it. Not having the heart to litter, I opened the door and tossed it in the back seat. Swinging my work bag off my shoulder, it followed, landing across the caving seats. I shook my keys out of my pocket and plopped down. Heaving a sigh, I smoothed my hands over the steering wheel and tried to swallow down the guilt of hating my car as I prayed that it started.

I'd wanted to get rid of this car so many times, but it fell to two things: I was broke, and the car had been a 'going-away-college' gift from my dad. He loved projects and rationalized their condition to me because it was a classic that 'the two of us could fix up together.' More like a classic piece of junk, I figured, but who can beat free? Plus, I was too ashamed to tell him that I could barely afford rent, let alone new parts for a '71 Oldsmobile.

The sad part was that Dad thought I was attending my first year at the University of New Orleans. The truth was that none of us could afford my college tuition. So I lied and told my parents I'd gotten a full ride.

"Sorry, Pops," I whispered, knocking my knuckles against the dashboard. "Fourteen more months and I'll have enough for the first two semesters."

I worked third shift at a nursing home. I liked interacting with residents, but third shift paid more. It allowed me and Maggie, my best friend and tag-a-long, to search for another job during the day. No luck yet, though Maggie didn't do serious looking like I did.

Frowning, I glanced back at the flyer. I guess we haven't tried everywhere.

I aimlessly reached into my bag, searching for my cell phone to call Maggie. "Mags, pick up! It's seven AM, time to start looking. You're dad's not gonna give you any more money if you don't pay off your credit cards and you can't do that if you don't have a job, so you better be awake when I get there!" I turned in my seat and squeezed my arm between the middle consoles to reach for the paper. "I think I have somewhere you might like too."