It had seemed, a family who never kept anything from each other, that the Withey’s had kept the extent of just what was happening in South Shields a secret from Dawn. They knew the truth would only cause her more pain, more guilt, more fear. But every day the comments had grown, to the point posters were plastered around the street the bakery sat, windows covered in graffiti, those who were against the magic the most, Ralph the newspaper man at the helm, extremely vocal. The week before, a brick had been flung through the window. A few of the casuals had quit that week, which had left Bev and long standing Patrice in there late into the nights, making sure the fruit cake orders had been fulfilled. What was left of them, anyway.
They had been there that night, wrapping them all up with red ribbon, when a sound of smashing came from the front of the shop. Another brick, Bev had assumed, until one came through the back door. The bottles, filled with flaming rags, came until the entire place was engulfed and there was nothing the two women could do except run for their safety.
She was full of apologies, and tears, but they all assured her it wasn’t her fault. They could rebuild, it was just a bakery. But she knew better. They didn’t fault her, but it was her fault.
She glanced over to the bakery, and upon catching sight of Benjy still standing there, excused herself. Seeing the damage in its entirety probably wasn’t the smartest idea right then, but it was too late. She came to a stop next to him, eyes scanning. The frame of the building, old and bricklayed as it was, remained, but everything that made it Bev’s was gone. The blue benches that matched the colour of the sea, the sign that hung out front, the windows that weren’t smashed may as well have been, given the graffiti.
But it was the step that finally cracked her. Her gaze roamed over everything, nothing salvageable, until it landed on a solid wooden step in the back – her step – painted bright blue and, somehow, in perfect condition. The sight of it broke her. The sadness, the panic, the fear, the guilt, it all went to the wayside compared to the painful anger she felt now, which came out in a sound that could have equally measured as a muted laughter as it could a near-silent sob.
“What the fuck is wrong with people?” Her voice was barely a whisper, eyes fixated on the step.
He sighed. “I don’t know.” He wished he could have said something comforting, but it was impossible in the face of all this. “I’m sorry,” he said, quiet, inadequate.
