Ch6. The Apartment Above

Amelia stared long and hard.

They had pulled over in front of a bar, the clinking of drinks and the chatter of patrons emanating from within. The building was grey and blocky, with a few cracks running down its body. It looked faded in appearance, though it gave off a unique 1920's vibe that made it look not too bad, giving it its own unique charm—especially with those vines creeping up the old building. For some reason, a smashed and broken television surrounded by bits of shattered glass sat where the pavement met the road.

The man at the wheel looked pretty confused, continuously glancing at the address and back at the slip of paper he had on hand.

"This doesn't look right."

Amelia remained silent, critically eyeing the bar from behind the glass barrier.

She usually didn't care where she ended up in—Amelia was far too used to moving around, going from dump to cardboard box to middle class dwelling in a span of one year—but, this time, well, this time was different.

She was here to stay.

And that scared her. It scared her more than she wanted to admit. Amelia always knew that the place she was staying in wouldn't be forever. What if they were like the rest? It wasn't as if this time she had the comfort of knowing that it would end, that she'd move on to the next family or orphanage, the cycle staring all over again. Amelia never had stability in her life, but she always managed somehow. In fact, that's all she knew, something she drew comfort from. She knew that she could survive as long as the next checkpoint was reached. This time, however . . .

Quite terrifying, really.

"Must be the apartment above," mumbled the American, stepping out of the car. The door was slammed shut. Immediately, Amelia also opened the door, stepped out, and slammed it shut—she exhaled loudly, feeling as if the whole ride had been ridden out without breathing, breath caught in her throat. Cars. Bad memories. She leaned against the machine, watching the man disappear inside the bar, most likely to ask for directions. Amelia waited, nervously fumbling with one of the strings that belonged to her green sweatshirt.

They . . . they wanted her, right? The man had hinted to relations, as in plural. A couple? And, how close were these relatives to her? How many cousins or uncles so many times removed? They said that there had been some kind of error in the system . . .

Amelia fidgeted. She didn't know how to deal with people. Would they be kind to her? She wasn't used to kindness, she didn't know how to react to such things. She had never been worthy of it in the first place.

"We never wanted you here, brat. We only want the money that you come with, nothing more. Now go wash the dishes!"

"You are a no one. No one wanted you, so here we are."

"An orphan? Poor, useless thing."

"If you so much as look at anyone in this family, I am going to beat you so bad they'll arrest you at the airport for having someone else's passport!"

"Amelia can't talk cuz she's duuuumb!"

"We feed and clothe you, you disrespectful little—!"

"Tonight you sleep with me, vermin."

A shiver ran down her back, a feeling of disgust towards herself welling up within. She was pathetic and a waste of space, dirty and unclean. What was she thinking? They probably never wanted her, the system forcing her pitiful self onto them! Yes, that could be it, it—

The man in charge of her re-emerged from the bar looking quite unsure, eyebrows drawn in in worry and a hint of disapproval. "According to the owners, they do indeed live upstairs—in fact, I believe that some of them work part time there …"

Amelia looked at the bar curiously. Music and conversation trickled out into the somewhat empty street.

The frown deepened. "… and, apparently, they are also regular customers," he added mostly to himself, none too pleased. "Very regular."

Oh. Okay. Alcoholics, then. Not her first rodeo in that department. And surprise, surprise, my luck strikes yet again, her sarcastic mind supplied her. Except, this time, I'm actually related to whoever these people are. Amelia was surprised to find herself feeling quite bitter at that last thought. She was getting a bunch of alcoholics. Again. Hopefully, they weren't violent. The last alcoholic she had to deal with had been. Very friendly when sober, which was never, but violent as all heck when drunk, which was around the clock. He never touched her, though. Amelia hid herself very well, so all that happened was that the house got thoroughly trashed multiple times, which she then had to clean while Mr. Ferguson was off nursing his hangover curled up pathetically on the couch. Poor sod.

A positive thing she got out of the routine was that Mr. Ferguson felt so guilty afterwards, Amelia got a regular supply of her choice of ice cream and scones. This had happened quite recently, just last year. Apart from mildly terrifying when the military veteran went on a rampage and she had to ride it out hidden in her hiding space (it was usually either the supply closet, which she blocked from the inside using the broom, or the space under the stairs, where she hid at the very end) as the house was torn to shreds and death threats were yelled at the ceiling (with her name added to the mix, making it more terrifying as things were thrown to the ground and vases were broken against the wall) her stay with Mr. Ferguson had been one of the most pleasant ones, despite her overall skittish nature around all male figures.

He sighed. The American got her suitcase out of the car with a grunt. "Oh well, off we go." He made his way off to the side, to the alley. She craned her neck, trying to get a better look. There was an old-looking wooden stairway escalating the side of the building, pouring into what looked like a small balcony, where a door was. He noticed that she wasn't following. He did a double-take, blinked, and then craned his neck to look at her. "What are you doing?" he said. "Come over, kiddo."

Amelia slowly trudged over, hesitation in her step. The man started his trek up the creaky stairs.

Amelia knew that the situation with Mr. Ferguson was not going to replicate itself. How, you ask? Well, first of all, Amelia was not the luckiest person on Earth. She got all the bad houses, whereas other kids got good ones or at the very least, decent ones. Not everyone, though. She once met a kid who ended up in an Oliver Twist style situation (which the authorities still don't know about) and another who actually got murdered and her internal organs sold in the black market.

Anita Creus. See, this is why Amelia didn't make friends. Anita had been her roommate for a short while before being shipped to her new home, as she had been adopted. She had been kind to the mute Brit.

Anita was the prime example of Amelia's motto: things could always get worse. Things could always be worse.

Amelia frowned to herself. What was I thinking? she admonished herself harshly. I can't trust these people! They are probably like the rest … I've been lucky compared to Anita, but I'm also not exactly the luckiest. I'm so stupid! Stupid Amelia …

Suddenly, a thought hit her.

I don't want to stay here.

She planted herself half-way up the stairs, frozen.

I don't want to stay here with them.

Her breath got caught in her throat, hands gripping onto the railway.

There were too many unknowns. It was too final. No escape. She could always take it in stride, survive until she turned 18—hadn't she been doing that all her life? But did she really want to continue living this way? She didn't want to end up like Anita. She didn't want a Paul Carson, or a Weis family, or even another Mr. Ferguson. She didn't want more Prichards, though she had plenty of those already albeit not as bad. Not that there was anything good about the other ones.

"Kid? You okay?" the American suddenly called. Yes, I'm fucking fantastic. Amelia did not want anyone to see her face, so the Brit went down a step and sat down, scooching over to the wall. "Yes—perhaps that's better. Let the grown-ups talk. You stay there."

For once, she didn't have a sarcastic comment. She was more than willing to do just that, thanks.

She heard loud knocking. Amelia hugged herself, body hunched over. I don't want to be here. Nonetheless, she opened her ears, waiting. There was a pause. More knocking resumed, this time much more adamantly than the last. Again, nothing. The American huffed rather loudly, and then proceeded to practically bang on the door in quick bursts, impatience in his fist.

Heavy stomping was heard coming from within the structure, every footstep hit by dramatic and frustrated force.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp! The door was unlocked and the doorknob turned. The door was violently lurched open. "WHAT?" shouted a very loud, slightly accented voice.

Amelia was glad no one could see her violently flinch.

"Ah, um, yes—good evening," the American fumbled, taken aback by the shout. "Are you—"

"Nae interested, nae buyin'," the male voice, now identified as Scottish, growled curtly. "Now bugger aff."

Amelia had always possessed of a sense of curiosity that had to be satisfied; she half turned her body, looking over her shoulder just in time to see the door being swung shut—the American (what was his name again?) shoved his foot between the door and the doorframe just in time, stopping the wooden barrier with a smacking sound.

"I'm not a salesman, sir." The American's smile never waned, though it appeared to be rather forced. "I'm from Child Protective Services, here to ensure the safe arrival of a minor."

There was a pause, pregnant silence. The door opened up slightly, hesitantly. Amelia couldn't get a good visual on the man, what with the door in the way. She did catch a flash of pale skin, though. And smell tobacco—she could make out some wispy white smoke being blown away. Amelia made herself small, pressing her body against the cool wall as much as possible—hiding herself completely from sight, thanks to that door. She listened, curiosity overriding her anxiety, if not a little.

". . . Ah dornt understand . . ."

The American cleared his throat. "Well,"

"Come off it, I dornt hae all bleeding day!"

"Yes, yes—it has come to our attention that—well, due to a mistake on our part, it seems that—ah, well,"

Her relation must've been very intimidating for the American to start stumbling like that.

There was a growl, which seemed to make the American more flustered. Amelia wondered where all his initial contempt had gone—probably scared off, if she had to guess. Amelia was liking this less and less. But, then again, it was quite satisfying to see the man who had tormented her with country music and useless chatter for hours get his just deserts.

"You have a sibling," the American finally got out.

Amelia's world froze. Say what.

Sibling?

There was a beat of silence. "So? I hae many siblings. Teel me somethin' ah dunnae know, eejit."

Many siblings?

The American brought out a fat folder that appeared to have some paper edges sticking out, alongside an enveloped letter. He offered it to the man at the door who, if Amelia wasn't imagining things, was her brother. Her brother made no movement to take neither the folder nor the letter. God, this was so weird.

Her head was spinning. I have a brother? I have many siblings? What the bloody—

"Your mother, Brittany Kirkland, had one last child before parting for the afterlife—since this child is your blood, a British-American liaison has decided to place this child in your and your brothers' care."

There was a pregnant pause. Then …

"So th' bitch is dead." The man's voice was cold and stiff. "Guid tae know. An' as fur 'er bastard, I'd raither nae be near it—goodbye."

But the American was persistent, leaving his foot where it was. Amelia didn't know what to feel; she wanted to cry, shrink within herself in shame, grow angry and punch something, and sit silently with indignation setting in her stomach, all at once.

"But sir—"

"There are awreddy enough mooths tae feed in this hoose, an' there's nae way aam lettin' that bitch's wee bairn stay wi' us."

The American's voice was stiff with an underlying tone of sadness. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland, but if you and your brothers decide to not take the child in, the necessary paperwork must be filed." He shifted. "The child must stay until then—good day, Mr. Kirkland."

And so, the American left Amelia's suitcase right in front of the man—her brother—and started to make his descent down the stairs, each step groaning under his weight. He paused in front of her.

"I'm sorry, kiddo."

He sounded genuine, too. And so the American left, leaving her behind.

A shiver ran down her back. Feeling like someone was watching her, Amelia turned to look up the stairs—and found herself being stared at by a red-headed man in his twenties that had a cigarette lodged between his lips, intense forest green eyes full of cold anger.

Not for the first time in her life, Amelia was scared of the person that was put in charge of her well-being.