𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓⁰²ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ

ㅤㅤㅤ i ──cherry

luke
ㅤ

ㅤ

ㅤ

My eyes stared at the darkness above me, drifting left and right as there was nothing to focus on but the light seeping from under his bedroom door; burning through the keyhole, invading the cooled tiles, and onto the heap of clothes on the floor.

As stiff and numb as my body was under my thick, cold sheets, I couldn't be bothered to toss or turn, considering I'd done so already multiple times throughout the night.

I heard dad's voice from outside, authoritative and cautious as he talked to someone through the phone, just as he did every morning to make sure all's as it should've been down at the church.

After almost ten years of going around the damned country, preaching his belief, living in a van that reeked of mom's lavender perfume and his lemonade, and barely staying in a town before hopping to the next - he decided we should stay a little longer in Los Angeles for reasons he hadn't touched on with anyone but to his journal and probably mom.

He decided to spend half his and mom's savings to buy some land in the less popular part of the city, which he deemed to be better for the "peace and quiet".

I helped fixed up a house we didn't live in, the church as well, and spared hours of my days to planting fences on the edges of the land - so that, as dad said, the peace won't be disturbed.

For the time I'd known him, I never thought peace and quiet was his thing. He was loud and obnoxious when drunk, whiskey and gin breath spitting out Billy Idol lyrics. He liked the scream of a well-tuned electric guitar, loved to cheer me on when I played one wonderfully through the speakers, and favoured most of all the shouting matches he'd start with mom - warring with edged words until their throats were raw.

No. Peace and quiet was not my dad. Step-dad, at that.

When we settled in, I decided I was going to make the best of it as I figured we wouldn't stay that long. But there we were a year later and we still resided in a quaint bungalow in a quiet neighbourhood. Not in the land we owned, oddly enough.

I used to object at the subject of moving. When I started seeing dad inquiring about good places to move to or start bookmarking different cities in his Google maps, I knew I'd hate the upcoming month. It'd be filled with packing up, discussing finances, and ultimately disappearing in the middle of the night.

I was never awake to witness our escapes but I knew well enough we'd driven off the city without an utterance of our leaving. One evening I'd sleep, thinking of my plans for the next day, but find myself waking in another city - plans more or less ruined.

I learnt never to make plans.

I hated the weighty thought in my head that I had never belonged anywhere and had no ground nor walls to call my home. I refused to call our family van a home despite the many times I'd said "it's time to go home" after a long day out.

I hated sunburns by the window, gas station bathrooms, and the aching in my back that came along with sleeping curved in the back of the van.

So, a year into LA, I'd started to miss all the things I despised.

I had no wish to move to another city and repeat the old life. I know I'd eventually grow to hate it once again like I and the lifestyle never parted, but I couldn't bear the thought of staying stagnant either. Feet never moving, my eyes never coming across another sign greeting me into a city.

But dad made friends, which he never did before. He found a caretaker, bought a house, and seemed more optimistic than usual.

Mom didn't buy it, so I opted on doing the same.