aria belivare, district seven | wip

We believe that our father may have made a deal with the devil. Aurelie and I had noticed that for months upon months, his hours at work had become odd — he would leave in the morning and often return home to a waiting, frustrated wife standing by his cold dinner plate at one in the morning.

We listened from the top of the staircase, peering through the bars of the balcony into the fire-lit living room.

"Where were you?" asked my mother. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" I recognized the sternness of her voice; this was how she would chastise my sister and I when she would catch us sneaking back into the house from a night out. My mother is an austere woman, with eyes like a hawk and sharp brows that always seem to slant downward.