Chapter Ten

"Morning."

Your head turns to your right; from your position in the kitchenette, your back is towards the living room and the doors which join your bedrooms to form this tiny apartment.

You flinch, surprised at the intrusive presence and words; you didn't notice that someone had joined you in the living area; your hand tightening its grip on the handle of the cooking pan, and it was only by the grace of God that you restrained yourself in time not to chuck your burning toast at the woman.

"Chloe."

You address the woman, your voice betraying none of the panic and sudden aggression that had overcome you for those decisive few seconds after her greeting.

The girl gives you an odd look, weirded out by your delayed response and the abnormal twitching of your body, likely thinking she surprised you rather than having activated your fight or flight instinct.

Her green eyes stare at you inquisitively; behind her glasses is an unwieldy and oversized plastic frame carrying an equally thick glass lens.

You feel a spark of guilt when noting that, though her glasses are carefully tended to; enough that you would mistake them for brand new, you know that such clumsy aids were not conducive to finding friends as a growing girl; maybe you should put in a bit of overtime and get her something better.

If you had worked harder, you could have fixed her sight.

You tear your eyes away from her freckled face and instead focus on the state of her attire with a pressing of your lips, the look of distaste and annoyance communicable as the woman gains a defensive look, piping up.

"What?"

"You're still wearing my shirt; take it off and put on something more appropriate; Chloe, you're not a child anymore."

Your voice takes a condescending note, it's not a conscious effort, but you've always endeavoured to raise Chloe appropriately, a human desire to have her avoid the pitfalls and mistakes you've committed and still face the consequences.

She's still wearing your chequered red shirt from yesterday, left open, exposing her stomach to the elements, alongside her cleavage; thankfully, you are saved from sighting her breasts entirely, as her nipples and the distant half of each mammary are covered by the said oversized shirt.

At least she's wearing some pants this time, albeit the leggings look faded and rise to your stomach; you can note the stitches from your mother's sewing as she sought to resize the bargain-bin clothing to fit her growing girl better.

"Does it matter? I'm at home, Em- Mom walks around in lingerie all the time, and I don't see you complaining."

She's annoyed, her eyes narrowing, arms crossing to thankfully cover her breasts, her auburn hair, tied up in a ponytail, flicked to the side as her head tilts to give you an aggressive look.

"Don't call her that; she's your mother, and maybe when you get your own apartment, you can set the rules but until then; you'll damn well listen to what I say!"

A look of hurt flashes across her eyes, her head turning to avoid your stare as she pulls your shirt tightly across her front; you can feel the air grow cold and the pin drop; suddenly realise that you had raised your voice at the girl, already the guilt begins chewing at you.

"Why are you always like this? Just wanted to talk before you leave for work."

Her voice is quieter, carrying a quiver as she turns to dart back to her room, ignoring your calls for her, the girl refusing to look back, the door to her room slamming shut as soon as she crosses the threshold.

Shit.

You press the bridge of your nose, massaging it as your migraine begins rearing its ugly head; so accustomed were you to dealing with irritating college youths, locals and gangsters; you used your Security voice on her.