^Áine^Zircon^D7^ {FIN}

The soap leaks in filthy brown droplets from my sponge, creating small puddles of water as I push the grime of Mrs. William's dinner off her crystal plate. She gives me the slightest frown; her dirty brown teeth peek through her thin lips in contrast to her bright pearls, and turns back to watching the latest massacre of the Hunger Games. She is one of my better customers, she doesn't scream or hit me, her abuse is purely verbal, stringing lists of curses I wouldn't expect a sailor to dream of. But for know she is pleasantly drunk, her expensive wine collection dulling her mind. As her help my job involves everything she is no longer able to do, from preparing meals to dusting her vintage pictures of a family that no longer wants her. With wrinkles on her face like shattered glass, she makes raunchy comments on the current status of the tributes. I keep quiet, let her rant and rave as I do her dirty work.

When I was young I used to imagine being a baker. I used to collect my sister's rations and use the filthy grain to create these disgusting gray rolls, and I loved them. There was a certain amount of pleasure from watching the yeast rise and knowing I had made something out of nothing. Everyday I as I walked to Mrs. Daly's house, I would pass the bakery. It was a simple shop, nothing amazing, but the aroma's were intoxicating. Looking at the beautiful danishes and pastries, I would smile and imagine a world where the rags and mops were replaced by icing and cinnamon. Of course I would then have to turn away, tuck my stringy brown hair behind my too large ears, and proceed to my minimal wage job. Mrs. Daly's location almost made up for the bruises that her wrinkled hands made on my face. 

"You selfish little bitch." Her voice pierced me to my very core, I can remember the furious hatred that laced her voice. Mama wasn't happy. I forgot to bring her the medicine for her back; it slipped my mind as I walked from Mrs. Daly's home. It had been a particularly bad day, and the bruises on my face were darker than usual. As I trudged home, my dress splattered with water from day old puddles, it didn't cross my mind that today was the day to pick up my mom's medicine. Her back gave out when I was 8, and she has been unable to work since. My father insisted that she was fine, but it's clear to me he is the one who lies, because he said he would be with us forever.

Daddy died on a Tuesday. Mama said his heart gave out, her eyes were damp, but my mama was strong and didn't cry. Mama never cried, because she is strong, stronger than I'll ever be. My tears more than made up for her non-existant ones. My mother grieved on her own terms, using dark drinks and light pills to allow her to feel. Mama said they were her special mixtures, and that it wasn't a 10 year olds job to be pesky. She would sit me down, stroke my long brown hair, and look at the streaked wooden panels as the dusty room swirled in her mind. She would tell me so many stories, "My own mom, she was a loon. But her eyes could drown an entire fleet of men. She used to look at me with her water eyes, and hold me tight. She called me her sugar. Do you want me to call you Sugar, Annie?" 

"Yes, Mama."

"Then I'll call you Sugar." Mama doesn't call me Sugar, but it's not her fault. It's not. She rarely forgets my name anymore.

I started working for Mrs. Daly after Daddy's savings ran out, and Mama insisted that me or Bree get a job. But Bree was 15, and I was 12. Bree sat me down, and she explained to me that she was too busy with school. Bree is a genius. She was always going to her friend's house and would study for hours. In fact, she wouldn't get home until Mama was asleep and I was pretending to be. Bree was too smart to work as a maid. She was too busy studying. Bree must've had a special mixture to help her focus, because when she came home she smelled like Mama.

With Mama's back, and Bree's genius, it was up to me to work for Mrs. Daly. I would get up before the sun made its way up, and cook her breakfast before heading out to school. I loved the walks during those mornings. Because the sun was creeping it way into the sapphire sky, and spreading it's light on another day where I was granted the gift of another day with my family. I did OK in school, sometimes I was too tired to do my work, but it was a sacrifice that being a Zircon required. Mama would be angry, insisting that I should be like Bree; it wasn't fair for me to fail her as a daughter.

Mrs. Daly's dinners sometimes took two hours to make. She was a picky woman, insisting that the meat was too rare or too well done. She was right, I am not a good cook, but I tried. The beatings hurt, so I would try really hard to make her the perfect meal every time. The first time Mrs. Daly hit me I thought about telling Mama, but I realized that the job was too important to her to risk losing. Without this job I couldn't get her the medicine she needed, and Bree would have to work. I couldn't risk it. I took the bruising, I took the lashes. I was already a clumsy girl, my narrow frame prone to the occasional stumble, so it was easy to explain

I found Mrs. Daly's body on the first day of my thirteenth year. Her eyes were open, staring into the infinity. Her hands were still clutching her tainted nightgown, as though they were still trying to restart her failing heart. She lay in a puddle of wine, most likely from her pre-prepared lunch, causing a the illusion of a bloodstain growing from her side. I cried for her. I cried for the pain she carried, I cried for the sorrow that she had to carry in her last years of life, I cried for the loved ones she never got to say goodbye to. I cried for all the times her anger bubbled over and caused her to lash out. Mrs. Daly was a good woman; her actions stemmed from years of loneliness and rage, but she was good in her heart. When I look at the scars on my back, I do not think of her with hatred, rather a sense of understanding. 

I met Mrs. William's a month later, just as the small amount of money I saved disappeared. Mama was getting angrier by the day, and I was becoming desperate for the cash, selling what I could salvage from my childhood. Mama was curbed after I finally got her medicine again. Bree was still studying, sometimes working all night, falling asleep and missing school. How she does it amazes me.

Mama, Bree and I will be together forever, as long as I continue to bring money for the special mixtures. We have to be.

*Aine Odessa Zircon*