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Wicked Game

Di doesn't bother brushing away her tears and they continue their trail down her slender neck. I notice the unblemished skin that forms the curve of her throat. A splash of cold water to the face is just what I need. I walk over to the bathroom. I smile at my reflection. It seems insincere. A couple of smiles later, I'm satisfied at the result. A quick touch of make-up and I'm back in the bedroom.

Di is still on my bed, head bent, shoulders heaving. She shows surprising strength in throwing off my arm around her shoulder.

"Get... away... from... me"

The ornate old clock hanging on the wall in our living room strikes three. An echoing gong louder in this silence. A local flea market four years ago. Di had loved the clock the instant she nearly fell over the table it was on. My daughter has always been so spontaeneous, so warm. Just like Millie. Innocent, and quick to believe.

My finger hurts from repeatedly pressing the elevator button. Di's sobbing can be heard even through the thick oak door. My heels tap against the floor, an irregular rhythm. I am getting late for my manicure appointment.

Story by:

Anushree Nande

www.facebook.com/pages/Anushree-Nande/269382013205626

1 October 2013