Identifying Sara

Chapter Thirty-One

As soon as I enter my house after meeting Mason, I know something is wrong. My father- yes I am calling him my father now- is on the phone. His eyebrows are knit together and he looks somewhat angry. When he sees me, he holds up a finger signaling he will be right back. I nod and watch him walk down one of the hallways that leads to an office sort of room.

"Well hellooo." I hear. I turn and see Leo's friend. . .Elijah? He looks me up and down making my eyes go wide. I find his lack of respect, repulsive. I don't know what to say as he keeps staring at me like he's the dog and I'm the piece of steak. "Uh. . .hi?" I say slowly. I take a step back thinking if I can get far enough, I can run. Where is Leo? Do his friends usually roam the house unattended? If so, I think we have going to have to set some major ground rules here, because I will not live in this house with random strangers roaming around the house freely.

I scream at my father in my head to get back into the room before I tackle this kid in front of me. I don't know what to say or do, when suddenly Leo walks into the room with an open mouth probably about to say something to his friend but it opens even wider when he stops and sees me, making this even more awkward. His eyes also widen-an expression worth snapping a picture of- when he sees his friend practically drowing himself in a puddle of his own drool. Again with the lack of respect for a lady. I shift on my feet trying to remove myself from the situation but none of my muscles move in the opposite direction of Leo and whatever his friend's name is.

"Elliot! I told you to stop hitting on my sister!" Leo exclaims, jumping in between me and Elliot. Elliot! That's his name! Why can't I remember that? I step even further back and stare at the two as they bicker at eachother in soft accented whispers. They don't seem to notice me as I secretly take more and more steps further away from them so, soon enough I'm far enough away where I can just run down the hall to the foyer that towers over my head and up the staircase of thousands of stairs. I get lost a few times but eventually I find myself at the door of my new room. This is not the first time I have brought myself here, so most of the things that are in my new room are boxes. Boxes of new things, though, all my old furnature and things couldn't be shipped to England for some strange reason so my father got as many of my belongings as he could, and bought me new things instead. I had told him repeatedly that all I needed was a dresser and a bed and I was set, but he insisted on replacing everything I had lost, so now I have more stuff than I know what to do with, and it almost makes me sad. I don't know why, but it does. Having a lot of belongings is a weird feeling. Having things to care for and use on a daily basis. It almost feels like it's not even mine, like the items are there for someone else and I cannot place a finger on the items because of their value of a fortune. I wish I could get those thoughts out of my head, but I think I have begun to realize that I do not like having a responsibility. I do not like having something big to watch over to prevent some kind of event involving other people.

I rumage through a few things trying to get rid of all the boxes cluttering up the room and taking up most of the floor space which is surprising considering my room is like the size of the living room back at my house in the United States. Time passes, memories come back, and my arms begin to shake and my muscles feel strained and like they are about to give up after lifting some new books onto a shelf a little higher than my head. Finally, after working quickly and hard to make things perfect, most of the things that needed to be unpacked have been unpacked and put into their places so they make my bedroom look more like a teenage girl's bedroom. I wouldn't really say the way my room is decorated now, is the way I would do it if I could have complete control over it. But I am satisfied with the items I will most likely never use. I have a feeling we wont be in this house for long anyway. Over the past few days I've learned about my father more and heard things like: London was never really his ideal place to have a home and family, but he can handle it. That got me thinking and was the reason I told my father to buy little items for the room, however he didn't listen, clearly unaware of what I knew. I flop onto the bed and close my eyes taking a deep breathe after feeling like I haven't been able to breathe in so long. I feel as if now I should feel different. It's really over; all of it belongs to the past now. I don't feel different though. I feel like there is still more coming in my direction. What that is, is still a mystery, but this isn't how it's supposed to end. I read a quote one time, it was on a small piece of wood painted white in one of the shop windows back in the United States. In Oregon to be exact. It read, "Every story has a happy ending. If you're not happy, then it's not the end."