She is pretty broken,
With a smile upon her face.
No one knows the difference,
Between what is real and what is fake.
He is pretty broken,
With that gleam inside his eyes.
No one took a second glance,
At the blind man in his suit of lies.
•••
[MARVE...
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•••
I'm late.
I quickly glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
4:04
Shit. I'm so dead.
I recklessly pulled up my dirty, blue car into the parking spot reserved for my family and easily slid out the vehicle while grabbing my bag off the passenger seat. My foot steps echoed through the empty hall of the apartment building, filling the chilling silence.
Skidding to a stop in front of the elevator I quickly checked my watch.
4:07
Shit. Shit.
The doors sprung open to reveal Mrs. Hollow and her dog, Daisy. She was a nice old wealthy lady who lived alone on floor 6. She was dressed as per usual in one of her floral dresses, one of her unusually coloured cardigans and a bag probably from the 50's draped over her arm. Daisy was a small French bulldog who would have probably looked scary if he wasn't dressed in a pink frock with a bow on his head. He was obviously a male dog yet Mrs. Hollow seemed to think he was a girl, hence the pink.
No chance I'm going in there with her mutt. I gave a fake yet convincing smile to her and continued to run for the stairs. I'll probably be faster than the lift anyway.
As I got to floor six I could see Mrs. Hollow and Daisy exiting the lift. Just as fast. I could have been faster. I reached the penthouse on the top floor and checked my watch again.
4:08
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Noiselessly I slid the key into the lock and opened the door tiptoeing inside and clicking the door shut behind me. I rested my forehead against the shut door and sighed. They weren't home.
"Where have you been girl! Your late!" A gruff voice slurred from behind me.
Shouldn't have spoke too soon.
He was drunk again. Great. My whole body tensed and I stood up straight. I didn't dare turn around to see my father's face.
"I'm sorry sir. There was traffic and-" I cut off as I felt his hand strike the back of my head. I knew he drew blood but I had learned not to show pain in front of him, so resisted the urge to give him the satisfaction of raising my hand to feel the wound he just created.
"I don't want your bull shit excuses! Your mother won't be happy you know! She needed your help in the kitchen and now she's mad."
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