Read Online The Bargaining by Carly Anne West - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carly Anne West
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campfire hastily snuffed out, but not before it could do a little damage.
And when I examine the frame of the hallway at the top of the stairs leading to a long row of doors, I see more evidence to support that smell. Charred pieces of wood spot the frame, crumbling under my finger when I touch the burnt places. Iflip the switch and blink against the light that flickers to life.
What did April say? Some plumbing and electrical issues, but still livable? I donât recall her mentioning anything about fire damage. I donât know much about home ownershipâokay, I know nothingâbut shouldnât that be something thatâs at least casually thrown into the conversation before you buy a house? Oh, by the way, there was a fire here, so that might have whittled some of the structural components down to toothpicks. Still want the house?
Charred remains of yellow-and-green-flowered Âwallpaper cling to the walls of the hallway, the plaster behind it a progression of dark rust to yellow. I raise Linda to my eye and make the wall my first picture. As though Iâve flipped a switch, her flash sparks and I hear rain begin to tap the roof. The wind exhales, and the branches on the trees grumble against the disturbance.
The hallway exposes six doors, three on each side, before coming to an abrupt end. I start with the first door to my right.
The window to this room is open, raindrops dotting the outside of the yellowed fabric hanging limply from the rod above. I cross the room and pull closed the ancient window that will no doubt need to be replaced. Even closed, the draft that creeps in around the sides puffs the curtain around my head, tenting me in a mildew cloak.
This room is pretty sparse, with an ornately carved bed frame resting without its mattress in one corner and a mismatched dresser hunched beside it, the bottom drawer jutting like an underbite. A pop of turquoise color peeks out from the corner of the opened drawer, all the way to the back. I recognize it immediately after walking a little closer. Reaching in, I pull out a plastic My Little Pony, complete with pink mane and matching tail, a smattering of lollipops adorning its left flank. I used to babysit a girl who had one. I remember telling her that they werenât new, that they were just resurrected from somewhere in the 1980s. I remember seeing that same pony sit in the backyard sun for days on end after that, like it was being punished for my revelation. Iâd dashed this girlâs fantasy about her pretty teal pony, and now it would bake in the unforgiving Arizona sun because of me.
I pluck the pony from the drawer and tuck one leg into my back pocket. I have no idea why itâs here, but Iâll be damned if I banish one more plastic pony to the subexistence of neglect.
Before I leave the room, I raise my lens and zero in on the spotted curtains of the window and the bed empty of its mattress. I notice a trail of dust and a dried smear of mud on the wall by the window, most likely the product of rain getting in from the open window. Except that it should be speckled like the curtain instead of smeared.
The room across the hall is practically a carbon copy of the previous one. Instead of a wooden frame, this room contains a bed made of ornate but rusted wrought iron. Still no mattress. Thereâs not even a dresser in this room, just a folding meal tray with faded pea green marbling that looks like something youâd find at a yard sale after someoneâs grandma dies. This window is open too, and harder to shut against the now pouring rain.
The room beside that one is also missing a window covering, but at least this one has a mattress. And while the rain is making a sizable puddle beneath the window, the wind hasnât quite blown any moisture to the bed. I think this might be where I sleep tonight, and I place the pony on the bed.
The room across the hall and the one beside it are duplicates of each other: twin
And when I examine the frame of the hallway at the top of the stairs leading to a long row of doors, I see more evidence to support that smell. Charred pieces of wood spot the frame, crumbling under my finger when I touch the burnt places. Iflip the switch and blink against the light that flickers to life.
What did April say? Some plumbing and electrical issues, but still livable? I donât recall her mentioning anything about fire damage. I donât know much about home ownershipâokay, I know nothingâbut shouldnât that be something thatâs at least casually thrown into the conversation before you buy a house? Oh, by the way, there was a fire here, so that might have whittled some of the structural components down to toothpicks. Still want the house?
Charred remains of yellow-and-green-flowered Âwallpaper cling to the walls of the hallway, the plaster behind it a progression of dark rust to yellow. I raise Linda to my eye and make the wall my first picture. As though Iâve flipped a switch, her flash sparks and I hear rain begin to tap the roof. The wind exhales, and the branches on the trees grumble against the disturbance.
The hallway exposes six doors, three on each side, before coming to an abrupt end. I start with the first door to my right.
The window to this room is open, raindrops dotting the outside of the yellowed fabric hanging limply from the rod above. I cross the room and pull closed the ancient window that will no doubt need to be replaced. Even closed, the draft that creeps in around the sides puffs the curtain around my head, tenting me in a mildew cloak.
This room is pretty sparse, with an ornately carved bed frame resting without its mattress in one corner and a mismatched dresser hunched beside it, the bottom drawer jutting like an underbite. A pop of turquoise color peeks out from the corner of the opened drawer, all the way to the back. I recognize it immediately after walking a little closer. Reaching in, I pull out a plastic My Little Pony, complete with pink mane and matching tail, a smattering of lollipops adorning its left flank. I used to babysit a girl who had one. I remember telling her that they werenât new, that they were just resurrected from somewhere in the 1980s. I remember seeing that same pony sit in the backyard sun for days on end after that, like it was being punished for my revelation. Iâd dashed this girlâs fantasy about her pretty teal pony, and now it would bake in the unforgiving Arizona sun because of me.
I pluck the pony from the drawer and tuck one leg into my back pocket. I have no idea why itâs here, but Iâll be damned if I banish one more plastic pony to the subexistence of neglect.
Before I leave the room, I raise my lens and zero in on the spotted curtains of the window and the bed empty of its mattress. I notice a trail of dust and a dried smear of mud on the wall by the window, most likely the product of rain getting in from the open window. Except that it should be speckled like the curtain instead of smeared.
The room across the hall is practically a carbon copy of the previous one. Instead of a wooden frame, this room contains a bed made of ornate but rusted wrought iron. Still no mattress. Thereâs not even a dresser in this room, just a folding meal tray with faded pea green marbling that looks like something youâd find at a yard sale after someoneâs grandma dies. This window is open too, and harder to shut against the now pouring rain.
The room beside that one is also missing a window covering, but at least this one has a mattress. And while the rain is making a sizable puddle beneath the window, the wind hasnât quite blown any moisture to the bed. I think this might be where I sleep tonight, and I place the pony on the bed.
The room across the hall and the one beside it are duplicates of each other: twin
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