VALERIE

"Graffiti, huh?"

Marjorie parrots my words.

"Yeah."

"And it said exactly what you were thinking?"

"Yeah! Twice. Don't you think that's weird?" I ask her, as I sweep the front of the shop. The sign has been turned to CLOSED, and it's just the two of us, cleaning up now that the day has pretty much ended.

"Just sounds like a minor coincidence." She replies.

Marjorie's Grocer's basically has a cheaper version of everything in regular supermarkets, so it's pretty much the most commonly visited grocery store in town, since most people are broke half the time. It used to be both Marjorie and her husband, Sam, who worked here. But ever since Sam passed from cancer, it's just been Marjorie handling the business. I didn't know much about Adam since he died when I was still learning to speak. But Marjorie does good business here, and the other adults seem to give her good company, so I'm sure she's okay now. It's usually very busy- except for rainy days and any time after 6 O'Clock. That's the time I usually come.

There is something about the old smell in this little shop. Not the dusty kind of old- a homey kind, that I can't really describe properly. The shelves that enclose the walls are always packed, and when they aren't I like to help restock.

I've known Marjorie for as long as I can remember. Due to my frequent visits to the store over the years, we eventually got some kind of connection. I guess she just seems like the only approachable person around here. I like her company. I'm never really sure why she likes mine: not every older person would make the choice to spend time with a bratty teen who never stops complaining about life.

Also, whenever I'm done helping her clean up, she usually invites me to her house at the back of the shop, and we sit in front of the fireplace in an old-fashioned kind of manner, with whatever thing she would have baked the evening before.

Today it's apple muffins.

After setting one down next to me, she sits in her own seat, the beads at the end of her braids clinking loudly with every movement. I always love Marjorie's hairstyles. Whether it's the waist length fulani braids or the huge afro buns, I'm always fascinated by her looks. I play with the ends of my own dark, tumbleweed mess. I miss having hair as pretty as that.

"Graffiti artists are usually some delinquents finding some fun to do when they have no lives," Marjorie says matter of factly. The orange of the fire reflects against her skin, making her look almost a dark, shimmering gold in front of the flames. She looks younger-way younger than her fifty-seven years of age, as the reflection softens her features."You should probably just leave it alone."

I turn away from her, and fiddle with the strands of my hoodie. I know she's right. It probably is just a coincidence. But when there's nothing else to do, how can I not want to uncover a mystery? But if there's one person I don't like to disappoint, it's Marjorie.

"Alright," I say reluctantly. "I'll leave it."

She gives me an approving nod, before changing the subject and asking the usual questions about college. I answer with the usual, plain responses.

"Fine."

"The course is boring."

"I can't wait to finish."

"And how about friends?" This is a question she does not usually ask me. Often because she already knows the answer. But maybe today, she has seen just how bored I am.

"I still haven't made any. I already told you, they won't want to talk to someone like me."

"Someone like you?" Marjorie echoes my words, but she knows what I'm talking about. She knows about my parent's reputations around here. About my reputation. "I'm sure you used to have lots of friends, Valerie. What happened to that girl? What was her name again...was it Fraya?"

I don't know why she's pretending she doesn't know. I adjust my scarf around my neck, and shift a little. "We aren't friends anymore."

"Oh."

We both sit in silence for a few moments after that, and in the meantime, I help myself to the warm, freshly baked muffin.

"It's very unfortunate," She eventually says, and when I turn to her she has a very distant look in her eye. She's thinking about something, but I don't want to know what it is. "The way children end up paying for their parents' mistakes sometimes."

I shrug. "It's life, I guess."

"Well, you can say that. But it just makes me sad. It reminds me of that young boy who died a few months ago."

I furrow my eyebrows, and pause from eating the muffin. "You mean Riley Suneo?" I sit up straighter on the couch, "What did that have to do with his parents?"

"Well, I've just heard around that his Dad wasn't very good to him. I don't know how true it is, but if there is some truth to that rumour, I just feel sorry that he couldn't really experience a good home life."

I nod, slowly, "It's sad." I mumble. I never knew Riley. But I know people who knew him. He even lived on the same street as Fraya. After all, this town's pretty small, and his death was all anyone would talk about for a long time. I didn't get the details-just that he was in an accident. It was a shock to the town-you don't really get those things happening much around here. But after a while, it kind of left my mind. Marjorie, on the other hand, still seemed to think about it.

I watch her sit silently stare into her cup, before deciding that I would not get involved in asking what she seems so troubled about. After all, it's not really my business.

******************

I decide to head back to my parent's house once the heavy pattering of raindrops against the windows begin to calm down outside. I don't like being around people when I sense sadness. Because I know there usually isn't anything I can do.

I'm coming up to the row of flats that make up my street. All small, narrow buildings made up of red brick, some hidden behind trees, some exposed in the open. The third one down is the one that I live in. I stare at the black door, and I notice that the copper door number, '27' is hanging limply by a screw.

With a loud sigh, I rummage for the keys in my bag, and brace myself before walking in. Immediately, the sounds of loud rustles and shuffling take place in the living room just beyond the main entrance. There are loud, obvious whispers which I choose to ignore as I go up the steps to the main door.

"I thought you said she'd be back late today."

"That's what I thought."

Mum is on the couch with one of the guys from the bar. Was it Steve? Wait, I think this one was called Adam. Not that I care. All I knew about any of these men was that they were all married, and that was more than enough to stop me getting involved with them.

They're both sitting stiffly apart, a large gap between them, but the mess of Mum's hair and Adam/Steve's unbuttoned shirt have already given things away.

"Honey! You're home early." Mum says, flustered, as she brushes a handful of hair from her flushed face.

"I told you I come home at two on Wednesdays." I reply, walking through the living room and heading to the door that leads to my room. I pause and then turn to her, a tightening feeling in my chest. "Where's Dad?"

"Oh, you know how your father is," Mum says this dismissively, but I can tell she tenses at the thought of him. I just always have to ask, because we both know he comes early some days, "Probably asleep somewhere in a ditch again, still hungover."

"That's why I'm here to keep your Mum entertained in the meantime," Steve/Adam snorts loudly, and Mum playfully slaps him on the arm.

"Timmy! That's my daughter, you know," She grins, and then turns back to me, all worry in her expression gone. "How was college, dear?"

"Good."I mutter bitterly, before walking into my room, and locking my door. I hear Timmy murmur something about antisocial teenagers, and my Mum cackling flirtatiously about it. Something tastes bitter on my tongue. Probably hatred. Not for Mum-I could never hate her. I know she only does it so that she doesn't have to spend her days so miserable because of him. But I have hatred towards every man she brings home. Because they know.

Bruises and cuts are not invisible.

I am greeted with the usual mildewy scent of my bedroom, and so I step over the piles of clothes and papers on the floor to make my way to the window. Condensation has gathered on the glass, and I push it open to let in some air. Then after shoving aside the piles of papers and books that are covering my bed, I throw myself down onto the large, purple duvet, and bury my head into my pillow.

Thoughts about Mum and Dad's situations attempt to overwhelm me, but I push it to the back of my mind and instead think about Marjorie.

Her house is much smaller, but way warmer than the place I'm living in. I wish we had an old-fashioned fireplace to sit in front of when it's cold outside. Our heaters rarely even work.

I think about coming home to Mum and Dad snuggling on the couch in the evening. Dinner would have been prepared, waiting for me in the kitchen. We would eat together, in front of the TV, watching stuff on Disney+ like the old days. Even though I'm seventeen, and both my parents are in their thirties, Disney movies had always been a life necessity to us. There is always a part of me that believes that might still be able to happen again.

But then again, I can't keep lying to myself. The past is in the past. And right now, there's no future.