Trapped in Forever

37 ~ We All Do It

A/N: Thanks so much to Sumaiya for making me the beauitful cover on the side! I love the little, blue rosebud for the O. THANK YOU!

The heavy scent of freshly brewed coffee, probably tinged a dark beige with a French vanilla creamer that Mom kept in the refrigerator, beside the Minute Maid orange juice and a bottle of Heinz ketchup, red crusting around the top, probably a result of Dad drenching his scrambled eggs in the red substance, filled my nostrils when I opened the door, glimpsing the paper folded and curled on the doormat, a picture of President Obama on the cover, holding his hand out, and early campaign signs behind him, blurred faces holding them in the air, but I ignored this as I stepped inside, feeling the cool tiling beneath my bare feet, with my shoes dangling in my fingertips. I tossed them to the side as I stepped inside, crashing against the wall with a loud thud, and I heard the daily news muting, their cheerful voices ceasing their conversations about lovely weather conditions.

"Amanda?" I heard her voice calling out, but all I felt was a pang of agony in the concerned slash enquiring tone that was added to her voice, followed by the sound of her slippers slapping against her bare heels as she got up from the couch, black remote with multicolored buttons still clutched in her hand, with the television still muted in the living room, and the scent of coffee grew stronger as she wandered into the hallway, clutching her Terry Cloth bathrobe near her chest, with a dark emerald cup of coffee in her hand, steaming around her wrist. "What are you doing out so early?" Then, slowly, almost excruciatingly so, her cosmetic-free eyes took in the graying mascara stains beneath my eyes, my eyeliner thick and uneven, and then the wrinkled fabric of the purple dress flowing around my legs, bare and ashen toes poking out, and my hair pulled into a quick ponytail, tangled against my back. "You never came back, did you?"

"I slept in the car," I mumbled, as I walked past her, the aroma of her coffee seeming to nauseate me, and I wondered if he was drinking coffee right now, inhaling the scented steam as he shook his head at the girl he shared a bed with, the one he consoled because she was crying over something as stupid as a modeling pageant, and then kissed him after she misinterpreted something he had said, thinking he had something that didn't exist. But as my hand fell against the railing, the glazed wooden surface felt chilled beneath my palm, I felt a twinge of apprehension that maybe what I had done had demolished our amity, leaving me alone once again.

My mother turned, her perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowing into two, thin, brunette lines narrowing together, and the taupe colored coffee sloshed in her mug, and she asked, "You slept in the car? Why? The pageant was only half an hour away." She set television remote down, onto the black, smooth, wooden table pressed against the wall of the stairs, littered with dustless picture frames of poised family moments, a turquoise vase with white, plastic lilies that I knew she would replace as soon as they began to bloom again, and their metallic key bowl, containing all three sets of Mikayla's, Dad's, and Mom's key rings, and a few spare coins, and then she placed her free hand on the railing. "Were you okay? Why didn't you call me, honey?"

"Would you have come even if I had?" I snapped, my voice exhausted and strained, and I closed my eyes I wouldn't have to watch as her gaze morphed from concerned, or perhaps slightly bewildered, to something else, something that seemed to always be filling into her gaze as she stared at me, contempt pouring into her irises.

"Of course I would have!" she said, and I could have just imagined her face as she said this, through my closed, thick eyelids, still burning from sobbing into his shirt last night, and I heard the faint clunk of her setting down her coffee mug onto the table below me, beside the key bowl, and her arms were probably crossing over the pastel pink plush of her bathrobe, astonishment tugging on her features as she gawked at me. "Why wouldn't I? You're my daughter, Amanda." She blew out a sigh, and my eyes opened, briefly, just to see her press her fingers against her forehead, rubbing back and forth, and her thumb beside her eye. "I wish you would stop treating me like the bad guy."