Neighbourhood Watch by Rhonda Mullins (best feel good books txt) 📗

of light that shine so bright she wants to collect them. She would like to gather them up, put them in a box, and hide the box under her pillow. Roxane turns the page. There’s a woman with a red scarf on her head. Tendrils of hair stick out from under it. Blond. Soft.

‘Anastasia is a young Moscovite.’ It’s written underneath.

Anastasia has red cheeks and black eyes that look straight on.

They’re steady. It’s like they know everything and it’s not even that bad. It’s like they’re saying, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’

Roxane looks at Anastasia, their eyes meet, for a long time.

* * *

A short break between clients. Meg is squatting at the end of an alley. Peeing. A thin stream that trickles to the middle of the alley, forges its own path, not giving a shit about obstacles. A thin stream that couldn’t give a shit.

Meg stands up, legs bare. Pulls up her nylons.

There’s a run. Fuck, there’s a run.

Whatever. Anyway, they know we have runs, Meg. You think they come here to fuck Miss Universe?

Meg silently talks to herself and smiles. She pulls up her run over all the other ones, which are invisible.

They have runs too.

She slips in her shoes.

We’re all full of fucking runs.

With all her runs, Meg reaches the street, following the course of her stream as it disappears into the gutter.

* * *

Roxane comes home from school.

Heavy backpack.

Frozen door, broken doorbell.

Rings once. Twice.

Goes in by the back.

Roxane barely knows the days of the week, but she knows when it’s cheque day. It’s today. There are one two three beers on the counter. The TV is on loud. Too loud. Her mother is drinking in the living room.

A swig. A soggy hello. Roxane, eyes worried, searches to see what’s left of her mother.

Dark circles under eyes, holes in her smile, grey bathrobe open, showing her wrinkled neck, suffering slouched on the sofa.

‘Hi, Mom.’

Silence.

Her mother looking at the TV. Roxane looking at her mother. Roxane wants her to look at her. She wants her to see her before he gets home. Because once he gets home, the house is on fire and it’s too late. The TV as a shield, Louise doesn’t have the guts to look at her.

It’s a quarter to six. Roxane doesn’t have time to hope. She goes into her bedroom. It’s dark in there. It’s cold in there. She sits looking out the window. In the distance, she can spot the river. Snow is falling on it. White lines from the sky to the ground, long, long, never-ending. ‘Snow … Sni-eg … ’ Between her deserted lips: ‘Snieg.’

The sound of keys. Then the door. He’s home. The shouting’s going to start.

Red numbers on the alarm clock: 6:00.

Head under the pillow.

* * *

Night falls suddenly, as if, starting now, there were something to hide.

At the pawnshop, they’ve rearranged the TVS, stacked them in the shape of a Christmas tree. A festive idea. A concept. The same image repeats on each screen. A woman, black veil on her head, cries, looking up at the sky. A child in her arms. Dead, no doubt. The same woman, the same child, on twelve screens in the pawnshop window. On twelve screens that together form a pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree.

Night might as well fall all at once.

Kelly and Kathy watch. The woman the woman the woman the woman the woman the child the child the child the child the child the child.

It’s snowing now on Rue Ontario. Wet feet are hunting for gifts. Kathy rolls a joint.

* * *

A storm hangs over the apartment. Roxane has time. She slips into the kitchen. She looks for something, head in the fridge. She’s hungry.

‘Rox!’

She jumps. Her mother is calling her. ‘Roooxxxx!’

Get back to the bedroom. Fast.

Louise in the living room, bottle in her mouth, him beside her, smoking in silence.

‘Have you done your homework?’

Don’t want to talk to you, she says in her head. Don’t want to. Don’t want to. Don’t want to.

Get back to the bedroom. Fast.

‘Hey! Talk to your mother, for chrissake.’

‘C’mon, Mom … ’

‘You don’t want to talk to me?’

Her voice is dribbling.

‘ … ’

‘Well, go ahead, dammit … Go rot in your room.’

‘Shut up, Louise!’

Him, spewing smoke. Gets her in line. Bridled like a horse. Roxane knows it’s starting. That’s how it begins. Her bedroom. Fast. Each stride as long as the world. One voice rising and biting, the other voice starts overtop of it, the words thick, it shoots, it spits, it spews venom. Roxane in her bedroom the window the snowflakes snieg snieg.

‘You’re a fucking idiot.’

‘Fuck you!’

A dull thud. She hits him.

Roxane vanishes, dives into another place, far, as far away as possible.

‘You sonofabitch.’

‘Don’t you touch me!’

Snieg. Snowflakes like long white lines in the sky that fall and fall and fall.

‘You want to kill me, huh?’

She laughs.

‘Shut up!’

She shouts.

Knock at the door.

Snieg. It’s pretty it’s pretty it’s pretty. ‘Open this door, Roxane, goddammit … ’ Long lines long lines. Bang! The door forced in, Louise in front of the window, Louise in her bedroom, in front of the snow that keeps falling.

‘Look at the snowflakes, Mom,’ she might have said, and then, ‘Oh yes, they’re pretty.’

‘Jesus! You just run away? I’m in shit, and you’re nowhere to be seen … ’

Her words drag along the ground, hot air pours out through the gaps in her mouth.

‘C’mon, Mom.’

‘Goddammit!’

Louise falls. Roxane grabs her arm.

‘Get up, Mom.’

She grabs her by the waist. Louise is crying.

He comes in, drags her by the T-shirt. ‘That’s enough of this crap, for chrissake.’

He lifts her up. It’s tight around her neck.

‘It’s tight around her neck,’ Roxane says, quietly.

Louise is yelling.

‘It’s tight around her neck,’ Roxane says again.

He drags her out of the bedroom.

Silence.

Roxane closes her door. Screaming. Screaming. Words. Blows. Her name. Her mother screaming her name. Roxane opens her drawer. Looks for her headphones, finds her headphones.

Shostakovich, violins. Louder, louder still. The violins the window the snow snieg that falls like lines from the