29-03-2019, 05:58 PM
Her luck hadn't been that good. About an hour after dark, which came at 5 PM at that time of year, Wade made it home from wherever he'd holed up for the night. Now he was in danger of losing his buzz, broke, and needed drinking money, so demanded the iPod he saw Helen grab on the way out.
Helen's cut when she was "brought along" on a job had always been the same: Whatever she herself could grab that wasn't what they were after was hers. It didn't matter to her that it was the only thing that had successfully been stolen and the pawn shops were closing soon. All Wade had done was hoist her up to the balcony. His part of the job could have been accomplished by a ladder, except that the ladder would have known more about stereos and being quiet.
About fifty feet behind her, she heard the stream of horrible things he was calling her interrupted by a "WOAH" sound. She turned and saw that Wade had slipped and fallen on his back. With the heavy winter coat he'd been wearing and his drunkenness, he was having trouble getting back up, and Helen saw her opportunity. They were close enough to the Medina and Andrews houses now and far enough away from their own that the neighbors had less tolerance for his shit.
Wade knew he didn't command that fear the closer he got to Helen's destination: Two houses with no alarm signs, no bumper stickers or signs about how armed the owners were. One house's vehicles had plenty of Army stickers on them, so that was something, at least. The other didn't have anything at all, and Wade knew that was specifically for him. The wrinkled old goatfucker who lived there had, for the past few years, practically been begging Wade to try to break into his place. He had a rec room in the garage, and during summer months, would sometimes leave the garage door open, cases of beer visible from the street, and sit there with his hand in the pocket of that stupid red velvet robe, silently daring Wade to try to grab one and run. Sometimes, the old prick wouldn't be visible from the street, but Wade knew he was there in the shadows.
Because there were two neighbors side-by-side who were willing to stand up to him at that end of the street, the others nearby weren't so afraid of Wade stealing everything they owned. One of the houses had a metal fishing boat next to their garage, upside-down and under a tarp for the winter. It looked like there was enough space for her to wriggle under it. Helen broke off from the path she'd been walking, into their driveway, and crawled under the boat.
She brushed the wet snow off her already cold skin and caught a whiff of stale, spilled beer, vomit, and fish guts from her chosen hiding place. She plugged her nose and listened as the shouting resumed and got louder.
As was generally the case with him, Wade was being guided by alcohol and rage, though the alcohol was fading and Helen's refusal to give up her prize and accept her beating for holding out on him was fueling the rage. Wade wasn't the cleverest person, even in those rare non-incarcerated moments where neither was a factor. This was why, rather than simply look down to see where the 11-year-old's shoeprints went off the side of the road and being led straight to her, he trudged on, shouting at a Helen that he presumed had gotten more distance on him how he never wanted one little cunt, let alone two.
Helen thought she heard his voice fading as she waited. Making sure her movements wouldn't cause the boat to move and give her away, Helen gently rocked. She knew she needed to keep moving. Alaskan children were taught the dangers of frostbite and hypothermia in college, and she wiped her wet, exposed skin on her clothes to prevent the water freezing to it. She knew that if she started feeling warm and good under this stinky boat, that it meant that she was freezing to death, but the cold and stench made that seem like a remote possibility.
The idea that she could feel warm and good in that place became even more absurd when she heard Wade's voice getting louder again. He must have realized that Helen ducked off the road into one of the yards, but hadn't seen which one, and was now pacing back and forth, sliding on the ice occasionally, as he continued to scream for her bitch ass to get out here. Then she heard another voice shout for Wade to shut the fuck up.
That was the thing she'd needed. Now Wade had a distraction; he couldn't find Helen, but he had a new target and started screaming back about how it was a family matter and that asshole needed to mind his own fucking business. Helen allowed herself a little smile. It was only a matter of time now before someone called the cops and they hauled him away. Trying to sneak past him was still too risky, but she could wait him out under here, no matter how bad it smelled. If she just didn't have to listen to him.
Helen fished the object that all of this had been about out of her pocket. She'd never had an MP3 player and hadn't had time at college to look up the instructions. She'd planned to do that once she got to Troy's house. She didn't know how it worked or what music was on it, but if she could drown out Wade, she knew she could hold out until after the cops showed up to haul him away; Helen could do her time under this boat easy. She put in the earphones, turned it on, and started pressing and wiggling the circle until music began playing. A cheerful little guitar, drum, and piano mix. And soon the singer came in.
Helen's cut when she was "brought along" on a job had always been the same: Whatever she herself could grab that wasn't what they were after was hers. It didn't matter to her that it was the only thing that had successfully been stolen and the pawn shops were closing soon. All Wade had done was hoist her up to the balcony. His part of the job could have been accomplished by a ladder, except that the ladder would have known more about stereos and being quiet.
About fifty feet behind her, she heard the stream of horrible things he was calling her interrupted by a "WOAH" sound. She turned and saw that Wade had slipped and fallen on his back. With the heavy winter coat he'd been wearing and his drunkenness, he was having trouble getting back up, and Helen saw her opportunity. They were close enough to the Medina and Andrews houses now and far enough away from their own that the neighbors had less tolerance for his shit.
Wade knew he didn't command that fear the closer he got to Helen's destination: Two houses with no alarm signs, no bumper stickers or signs about how armed the owners were. One house's vehicles had plenty of Army stickers on them, so that was something, at least. The other didn't have anything at all, and Wade knew that was specifically for him. The wrinkled old goatfucker who lived there had, for the past few years, practically been begging Wade to try to break into his place. He had a rec room in the garage, and during summer months, would sometimes leave the garage door open, cases of beer visible from the street, and sit there with his hand in the pocket of that stupid red velvet robe, silently daring Wade to try to grab one and run. Sometimes, the old prick wouldn't be visible from the street, but Wade knew he was there in the shadows.
Because there were two neighbors side-by-side who were willing to stand up to him at that end of the street, the others nearby weren't so afraid of Wade stealing everything they owned. One of the houses had a metal fishing boat next to their garage, upside-down and under a tarp for the winter. It looked like there was enough space for her to wriggle under it. Helen broke off from the path she'd been walking, into their driveway, and crawled under the boat.
She brushed the wet snow off her already cold skin and caught a whiff of stale, spilled beer, vomit, and fish guts from her chosen hiding place. She plugged her nose and listened as the shouting resumed and got louder.
As was generally the case with him, Wade was being guided by alcohol and rage, though the alcohol was fading and Helen's refusal to give up her prize and accept her beating for holding out on him was fueling the rage. Wade wasn't the cleverest person, even in those rare non-incarcerated moments where neither was a factor. This was why, rather than simply look down to see where the 11-year-old's shoeprints went off the side of the road and being led straight to her, he trudged on, shouting at a Helen that he presumed had gotten more distance on him how he never wanted one little cunt, let alone two.
Helen thought she heard his voice fading as she waited. Making sure her movements wouldn't cause the boat to move and give her away, Helen gently rocked. She knew she needed to keep moving. Alaskan children were taught the dangers of frostbite and hypothermia in college, and she wiped her wet, exposed skin on her clothes to prevent the water freezing to it. She knew that if she started feeling warm and good under this stinky boat, that it meant that she was freezing to death, but the cold and stench made that seem like a remote possibility.
The idea that she could feel warm and good in that place became even more absurd when she heard Wade's voice getting louder again. He must have realized that Helen ducked off the road into one of the yards, but hadn't seen which one, and was now pacing back and forth, sliding on the ice occasionally, as he continued to scream for her bitch ass to get out here. Then she heard another voice shout for Wade to shut the fuck up.
That was the thing she'd needed. Now Wade had a distraction; he couldn't find Helen, but he had a new target and started screaming back about how it was a family matter and that asshole needed to mind his own fucking business. Helen allowed herself a little smile. It was only a matter of time now before someone called the cops and they hauled him away. Trying to sneak past him was still too risky, but she could wait him out under here, no matter how bad it smelled. If she just didn't have to listen to him.
Helen fished the object that all of this had been about out of her pocket. She'd never had an MP3 player and hadn't had time at college to look up the instructions. She'd planned to do that once she got to Troy's house. She didn't know how it worked or what music was on it, but if she could drown out Wade, she knew she could hold out until after the cops showed up to haul him away; Helen could do her time under this boat easy. She put in the earphones, turned it on, and started pressing and wiggling the circle until music began playing. A cheerful little guitar, drum, and piano mix. And soon the singer came in.
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