Bricks

The bricks remind me of a cat's tongue. On warm days after a rain, I'll run my hand along a row and they'll be damp, just like a cat's tongue. The only time I felt one was at my other baby sitter's house -- the cat liked me because I gave her treats. Mom never told me why I hat to stop going there, but I heard her talking to Auntie. She said we don't have the money anymore. River told me not to worry about it, when I asked her why money would mean I can't go to the other house anymore. Then, she asked if I missed it there. I told her I missed the cat. She wrote that in her notebook.

     Most days the bricks are dry, so I miss the cat more, but then I do other stuff, which takes my mind off money and nightmares. Auntie says she worries about me when I sit by the wall, reading or playing with my dolls. She says that I'm being "anti-social," which I think means I don't talk to my cousins as much as I should. But I don't like talking to them sometimes. JC always wants to talk about Uncle or play house. I don't like playing house, I always have to be Mom and that makes me cold. Even on warm days. Mom says that I have thin skin, maybe that's why it makes me so cold.

Today the bricks are damp, their red a little deeper, more like a quilt of hard scabs holding up the floor to the kitchen. JC and Trevor are watching TV and making molds of their GI Joe's with Play-Doh. It smells like old damp and old wood in the basement. We can hear Auntie moving around in the kitchen. There's a wood stove, it's brick too, in the middle of the basement. It's cold, hasn't been used since winter, but I don't like those bricks. They're too close to the TV and door.

Trevor notices me with a doll and says, "JC used her hair to sweep the steps." He's looking back at his mold when I check him after I check Lucy's hair.

"Did you really?" I whine to JC. He won't look up.

"No." But his voice is tight, like his throat is a dam.

"There's still stuff in her hair, you know." He sighs. "You need to clean her." I tell him.

JC groans. "But...you know what, I'll do it if we can play house. And, you can keep your clothes on when we make the baby this time."

"You clean her first."

"No, she'll be the baby. I'll clean her after."

I stand and shrug, plucking at my dress. At least this time I won't be cold.

Author's Note

Could this stand to be expanded or is it full enough as a story as itself? Also, is the symbolism pretty clear?