2019-03-22 - Downhill

It can't all be sunshine and roses and handsomely scented men who say sweet Spanish sayings in cafes. In fact, for Violet, there was hardly ever sunshine, barely any roses, and absolutely never ever any handsome men speaking Spanish poetry and plying her with sweet kisses (in public, no less!). The afternoon in Alex's presence, full of such pure joy and absolute delight, was so rare an occurrence to Violet that she was certain it would never happen again, and would forever be her 'once in a lifetime.' So as the door to her store swings shut, leaving Alex outside on the sidewalk and Violet inside beneath the dim yellow glow of the antique lights, she breathes a sigh so deep that it sounds as though it were coming from her very soul. Her lips still feel warm where he's kissed them, and she can still feel the weight of his fingers on her cheeks which may now be permanently stained with the ugly splotch that her face calls a 'blush.'

<< Vi? >> Not now Alice, not when her heart was still racing and she needed to be pulled down off of Cloud Nine. Not when she feels like she is dancing on air. She didn't need those emotions clouded by guilt, by the suffering of a sister who she'll never see again. A sister who will never experience her own sweet kisses, who would've had Alex eating out of the palm of her hand in a single evening, who could recite poetry in his own native tongue. A sister who he would love, if he ever had a chance to meet, and Violet would only be a passing thought. Come down, little flower. Come down off that cloud and back to earth. Those sweet kisses and that romance doesn't even belong to you, it certainly would never have happened if Alice had seen him first.

She collapses into the armchair by the window upstairs in her loft. She sinks deep into those thoughts of self defeat, those nagging voices that weren't even whispers. << Vi? >> Alice calls again. << Did you go get dad? >>

The question brings Violet out of her reverie. Gone was the afternoon, the evening had begun. It was nearly eight P.M. She hops out of her seat and grabs her shawl, slipping it around her shoulders to keep her warm as she hurries into the night chill. The Pourhouse was not a place that Violet willingly goes - this is her father's place. He gets there when it opens, and he wastes away his day in seemingly endless beer bottles, until around this time every evening. Because Violet comes to collect him. She never dares to go inside - she doesn't even need to come here, she doesn't need to subject herself. But she can see him on his stool at the bar from the window, and she can make that connection that much deeper. There's just a single image that she sends, the image of home, and the feeling of comfort and warmth.

Inside the bar, Mister Whitehouse rubs his blood shot eyes and closes out his tab. He stumbles, drunk, out the door and out into the streets. He shouldn't have had any reason to see her, she should've just stayed on the sidewalk across the street. She hadn't made an attempt to cross his path in months, and there was little reason for it now. Yet she does. "... Dad?" Her voice crack and she feels as weak as a child, reaching for her father's approval. Wanting to rest a hand on his shoulder, to make sure that he was okay. "Can I walk you home?"

But there is no love here. Mister Whitehouse snatches her wrist before it makes contact, squeezes and twists so hard, she was going to bruise. She squeals, tries to get away, and he just grips harder. "Witch," his breath is sticky hot, the scent of whiskey so strong that it makes her feel naseous. "Satan's fucking slut, I told you to leave me alone! I should have locked you away, Devil whore, instead of your sister." He was just drunk, he didn't mean what he said, but she only has to skim the surface to feel the very sober hate that is rolling out of him. He turns her wrist, and she can feel the bones threatening to snap, but her cries fall upon deaf ears. "You ruined my fucking life," he spits in her face and pushes her away, pushes her to the ground, where she falls in a heap, shawl and all.

"I hear you're slutting around with the new doctor in town. Spreading your disgusting legs. Do you really think you're worth a fucking doctor?" That laugh, it's so cruel. "You're not even worth a fucking garbage man. He doesn't want you. Nobody wants you. Don't come near me again, witch."

Violet stays on the ground long after he is gone, crying ugly tears. The bruises were beginning to flower on her pale, pale skin. But eventually she gets back to her feet, looking down the sidewalk that would lead her to her shop. It was all downhill.

It was all downhill, from here.