The Devil is Laughing

Author's Note: Wow. I'm sorry, don't hurt me, I know I've neglected this poor story!

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The clouds have trapped the sun behind their backs, refusing to let her show her smiling face. The sun mischievously burns the backs of the clouds, so they pour down tears; rain topples onto the roof of the house - a steady steel beat of a drum. Davis’s arms are entwined around my waist, and my neck has a crink in it from sleeping tucked under his chin. We are one in the same, or maybe it’s just the sun, but as my eyes adjust to the light I feel Davis join me in the conscious world.

“Morning,” he says softly into my ear.

“Good morning,” I mutter, pulling the sheets away and staring at my uncovered body. I’m still tired, and don’t feel like getting out of bed, but the powers that be (in this instance, my mother) decide that it must be so and pound on the door to wake me up.

“I’m up, I’m up, I’m up.”

“I wouldn’t have noticed,” Davis laughs as I scowl at him, pounding the sheets with my fist in aggravation. Tip-toeing out of bed and creeping over to the dresser I pull out a nightgown, catching him staring at me from the corner of my eye.

“Stop,” I mutter, blushing furiously.

“Stop what?” He seems genuinely confused.

“Stop staring.”

“I was staring?” He knits his eyebrows together and stares at me as I turn around, slamming the dresser drawer with my hips.

“Yes,” I fold my arms across my chest, “you were staring.”

“I didn’t mean to, sorry,” he adds hastily, moving out of bed and pulling on a pair of pants, the same ones he wore the night before; blue jeans.

“What do you want for breakfast?” The question is tiring and nagging all at the same time, as if I have just gotten out of bed for the thirty-thousandth time next to Davis; instead of the first in a long while.

“Do you have toast?” He asks, grasping my hand in his as we mount the stairs. I detach his hand from my own, out of nervousness (or shame?) and pull my hair away from my neck.

“We have bread, which you can use to make toast, if you want.”

“That sounds good.” His breath tickles my neck and swat him away.

“Not now, please, not this morning.” I glare at him and roll my eyes, descending the rest of the way down the stairs without him beside me, knocking over a pair of boots (that so happen to belong to him) in my wake.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, Davis, I’m not mad at you.” I respond coolly, reaching up for the bread that sits on the top of the refrigerator. Moving away from him I grab the milk that Nathan has left on the counter.

“You sure seem angry—” My mother interrupts him as she walks in.

“Morning Marie,”

“Hi, Mom.”

“ Davis,” she nods at him and he nods back and I stare at them both. How could they be so in tune with each other, are they plotting something against me? Or for me, something that I’m not aware of – I wasn’t aware of Davis coming last night; what else could they be hiding from me. A sincerely belated birthday present, that someone has forgotten; or back to school gift perhaps. I haven’t gotten a back to school gift since I was seven.

“Marie,”

“Hmm?” I look up and notice that I have landed my elbow in the bowl of cereal and milk is flying everywhere. Whoops. I move clumsily across the kitchen floor and, slam. My head and shoulders hit the floor because someone has failed to mention that snow has leaked in from the windows, a puddle forming on the floor. Davis snickers and I stand up, completely ignoring him and brushing myself off. I march carefully to the counter and pull a sheet of paper towel from the rack and move to clean up the mess that my careless fore-arm has made. The cereal doesn’t look all that appetizing anymore, it didn’t look all that wonderfully delicious in the first place. Scowling again (I swear, my face will freeze that way, I’m sure of it,) I pour the bowl into the sink and storm out of the kitchen, in my nightgown and out the front door. A bundle of snow falls unkindly onto me, and I have a sincere feeling that the devil is watching me; laughing himself into an asthma attack. The paper is soaking wet even in the plastic bag, and the sun is still being eaten by the clouds when I go back inside; my toes clinging to the warmth of the wooden floors.

I raise my eyebrows at the occupants of the house and grumble my way up the stairs, and try to slam the bathroom door- failing the first time, before finally hearing a satisfying bang, as the wood hits the frame. Pulling my hair away from my neck again, because it somehow crept back there while I was outside, I move from the tarnished sink and the bathroom mirror which desperately needs cleaning; to the bathtub, turning on the hot water faucet. I let it run a few moments, listening to the whoosh of the water; before sticking my fingers in.

“Fuck.” I pull my burned fingertips away from the water and adjust the cold faucet so it’s even with the hot water. Moving into the bathtub, I inch my freezing body into the still-too-hot water, second by second.

“Ow, ow.” The water washes over me and it takes a moment or three for me to relax, finally. Reaching to the left of the faucets I find a whimsically decorated bottle of body lotion bubble-bath. I pour two capfuls of the green thick liquid into the water and watch little white bubbles form around, surrounding me up to my chest in suds. I lean back, allowing my thick hair to weigh down the rest of my head, pulling it under the warm water.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe I am just a little bit too tense.

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