Devilish Detective ✅

I Can Also Juggle Knives

Chapter One - I Can Also Juggle Knives.

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I am pulled out of the abyss of deep sleep to the sad reality of the continuous pounding on my door which threatens to fall from its hinges. Stretching and yawning, I lift myself off the bed, slip my feet into my old slippers and walk towards the door. I take in a deep breath before I pull it open.

My aunt stands on the other side, her fist hovers in the air, blue eyes glaring daggers at me and they don't soften a bit, not even at the sight of my wide grin. Her lips curl into a snarl and she scrunches her nose in disgust towards me, but I refuse to allow it bother me.

Aunt Natasha is usually in a foul mood when I am around her, but this is heightened every Thursday. She calls it Thursday morning of doom because every Thursday, her boss goes around inspecting everyone and she isn’t exactly the neatest person I know.

She eyes me up one more time before she turns on her heels and storms down the stairs, not bothering to breathe a word to me. She is usually like that. It is either she treats me like I don’t exist, or she is barking orders at me.

When she isn’t doing any of that, she is blaming me for every misfortune she has faced, starting from her husband’s death to the death of her parents.

Of course, none of the bad things that have happened to her is my fault, but she refuses to hear any of it. As far as she is concerned, I have a cloud of bad luck hovering over my head, pouring on whomever I come in contact with.

“Good morning, aunt Natash,” I call after her, but her retreating figure doesn’t even acknowledge my greeting.

Still smiling, I close my door and pick up a jean that is faded and has been stitched one too many times, and a blue top which is now perpetually wrinkled due to years of laundry.

Of course my aunt can afford to change my wardrobe. She after all dresses in only the best and most expensive materials, but when it comes to me, she tries not to spend more than necessary; this means little to no new clothing and shoes, no laptop and a very old phone with buttons that have almost stopped working.

Gathering my clothes, I walk into my bathroom where I freshen up. Once I am done and all dressed, I stand in front of my small cracked mirror and take in my reflection where I comb out my black curls and pack it in a bun, apply lip gloss to my chapped lips and slip my horn-rimmed glasses over my clear green eyes.

Satisfied at the result, I pick up my worn out school bag and swing it carefully over my shoulder so as not to completely tear it, and step out of the room, making my way downstairs where aunt Natasha and her son Ben are having breakfast of bacon and eggs.

“Good morning, Ben,” I cheerily greet, even though I know I am going to get ignored. He doesn’t disappoint me. He continues eating like I didn’t just greet him.

Not fazed by their neglect, I walk past aunt Natasha and am about to walk past Ben to head to the cupboard over the kitchen counter when I trip over his foot and fall to the floor, the strap of my backpack finally coming loose.

Sighing, I push myself off the floor, trying not to get hurt by their belittling laughter. One would think I’d have gotten used to it after hearing it for years, but it manages to sting every single time they cackle at me, treating me like I am meaningless.