#9

It hurts to stand and move around, but she knows it would hurt her more to stay.

Pretty clothes, brave face, glasses firmly between her and the world, no looking back. She keeps her gaze in her hand instead, counting and recounting the change. Still eighty seven cents, she notes. But she doesn't trust herself to look anywhere else, especially towards the station exit. This busywork keeps her eyes occupied, and her hands from pressing to her empty abdomen.

San Francisco. Christmas in a strange city, alone.

Sometimes you have to pick the devil you know nothing about.

All aboard.

ita, that one stings. Wow.

Agreed. That one has teeth.

Photo #5: [link]

She’d always loved that nightgown. Gramma had made it from the fabric they’d picked out together, soft flannel covered in flowers. The lace at the cuffs and collar had been a surprise. She remembered how she had begged to be allowed to change and how Mom said young ladies didn’t wear pajamas at the dinner table. She remembered Dad saying they could make a birthday exception, and then how Butch had wanted to wear jammies too. It had felt so wicked to break the rules, to eat her meatloaf with bare feet kicking under the table.

Wicked was simpler then.

Kristin, is Brian Butch? I mean, linking them to the names in the photo's title?

Missed the title until after I'd posted. Editing now.

Your take on Baby Brother Butch is kinder than mine. I had him spree-killing Chris and Judy, his parents.

What? I write mysteries for a living, damn it.

(edited for a truly wretched Freudian slip of a typo)

I wanted to go much further with how far she'd gone from the rules of her childhood to where she was now, but I ran out of words.

I wonder if she's related to Jean, the girl leaving for San Francisco in 1967?

I was imagining her on the verge of divorce after years of being taught about the sanctity of marriage, yadda yadda. Obviously the drabble went elsewhere, persnickety little beastie.