Medium by Death Sinatra

Prologue

"Because I love you." He had told me with sincerity. And I had laughed in his face, unaffected by the torn and confused expression on his face.

"There's no such thing as love." I had told him, and then I had walked away, still laughing madly, because he had said he loved me.

I did not need a liar.

I learnt the word 'love' so long ago in kindergarten. My instructors had always told us that we love our parents, and our parents love us. But instructors aren't always telling the truth. There was no love in my family. Hate was ever so present, though.

I learnt that there was no 'love' even before kindergarten. I've heard my parents shouting heated words at each other. They were so angry. And I had, in my young stupidity, crawled up to them and pulled my mother's pant leg. She looked down at me, and I must admit, I was frightened by the look she gave me. Before I knew it, I was thrown away from her and blood was running out of a cut near my eye. Damned whore kicked me.

I had stared at the broken glass table, its shards sprawled in the deep crevices of our carpet floor. I was too petrified to cry. And too afraid to feel pain as crimson floated down my face, to my lips, and then chins in slow motion. It dripped down.

Plip.

"You bitch!" I heard my father screech, and turned to see him back-handing my mother, who in turn sent him a glare and more unkind words.

I wept silent tears in the background.

I remember my past events so well because it was easy to. There was no reason to forget anyways, I would have learnt it in the future if I hadn't before. It was either sooner or later, and sooner is better, because it wouldn't have hurt as much.

There was no love. No such thing. It feels great to know, too.

My parents only took care of my brother and I because it was against the law not to. We've never gotten anything but food, clothing, and shelter. I did not have a doll on my bed, and I had never seen a real computer in my life. The rumors other children in my school gossiped of had once led me to asking my parents.

Like I had said, I had been foolish. Asking only got me another beating, for wanting something that I could never have. I felt stupid after that incident. Not hurt, just stupid.

As I grew, so did my parents. They turned old and wrinkly, and withered as they reached the borders of death. My parents hadn't had a divorce, because it would cost money and divorces weren't food or clothes or shelter.

I had been anticipating the day they finally leave this world, leave my life. I would have smiled and laughed when they had, if it weren't for the fact that Souta and I would have close to nothing to have even the most basic needs. Those bastards left us so little.

When they had died, it was on my eighteenth birthday and I had inherited the puny amounts of money my parents had left. I've heard accusations. I mean, who wouldn't be suspicious? The date really was a pure coincidence though. They just had to ruin one of my most important birthdays. Again.

Anyways.

They had never had a steady enough job to get us what we wanted, and nothing in our home could be valuable enough to be sold. We needed everything anyways. Because they were either clothing or food. Shelter of course couldn't be sold.

I work in a small coffee place as a waitress. People say I am perfect for the job because I am so kind and friendly. I would laugh when they do, and they wouldn't ever know I was laughing at them, and not with them. They were foolish, and that makes me laugh harder.

My little brother Souta had a job as a cashier at a department store, one that was going bankrupt and paid very little. He would come home everyday without a word and go up to his room, sleeping the rest of his days away. Mom and Dad made us this way. It's all their fault. Blame them.

Souta and mine salary aren't nearly enough for us to live. We, of course, had to get another job. Something that was hard to find with our family name. Apparently, our parents were known as cheaters and bad words were thrown at us every time we leave an interview. Bitch and bastard and sonava bitch and whore and slut were the most common.

Weeks later, a 'friend' called and told me that her grandmother had heard of her dream to open up her own little dream cafe, and had supported her with enough money for that dream to come true. She had apparently been saving up everyday lunch-money.

I was a tad shocked when she asked me and my brother if we wanted to help around and get ten percent each of what we earn in the future. She had heard of us needing the money, and I was glad to accept. I knew I had befriended her for a reason.

Souta had only waved the news off and went back to his room when I had told him. He'd always been like that. I could tell he was glad, though.

And so the project began. Us girls 'huddled' around and discussed the design and name of this would-be cafe. Lots of ideas were thought of, and we finally decided on 'Medium' for a name. I had thought this to be a pretty decent name, but my friends had thought it weird. We used it anyway. There weren't any others as good. We had things like 'Pinky' and 'D-Caf' and 'X-Treme.' It was easy to choose, really.

Eri, the girl who had called and offered me the position, thought it would be fun to hand-make everything regarding image. The small place she rented had already been a restaurant previously, and it wouldn't be hard. Just a little renovation. We agreed.

I was left with the job to make up and sew our logo - not a hard task - and we dismissed our little meeting. They had wanted some kind of cheer. I didn't do it, but watched them. They were quite amusing.

The project went smoothly. I came for noon shifts and afternoon ones after my morning coffee shop job was finished, while Souta came in the afternoon after his shift in the department store. He did all the heavy work, like carrying supplies and all that crap.

It was actually quite entertaining to work here. Gives me a special feeling of being accepted inside. Funny. I had never had a dream before.

But hey, that's what makes my world go round.

Author's Note -

EXTRA: I've changed pennames. My old one sucked.

So yeah. This is just a small short-chapter story. Kind of dark, just not in the horrifying way. I'm deciding if I should make this R instead of PG-13. Suggestions? Don't rate please! Reviews? Pweese?

-Sinatra