Tight scripts and pursed lips, yet again I’ve broken the ever-so-important rules my mother has imposed. In my room, I stare around, bored. I’d outgrown the age of toys, and this was long before the days of personal televisions, game devices, anything to keep me from staring at the clock, sulking.
The rumble in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten in a while. Mother wouldn’t notice if I snuck downstairs; it’s not like it’d be the first time.
I do my best to keep the floorboards from creaking, treading slow and light as I can manage. I lean forward, peering around the stairs to check that mother isn’t around.
Except… she is. Hands muss her hair and male lips smear her meticulously applied red lipstick, but the possessor of these extremities is not the man whose diamond she wears on her finger. The sight paralyzes me in abject horror. Forgotten mail is strewn about their feet, and when his hands travel to unseemly destinations I force myself to look away, to creep back from whence I came.
I should imagine this isn’t quite the lesson she intended to teach me when she sent me to my room.
A/n: not my best, but I need to get back in the habit of writing daily again.