Tethered

Seventeen || Cradle

{Horizons ~ The Staves}

...My soft ground, it's paper thin, It feels so paper thin, jack it in, where do I go, where do I go, where do I go, when I want to shut it down...

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     It is early in the morning when I hear a knock at my door, a gentle sound of knuckles against wood, hesitance in every part. I move from the window seat where I have been sitting in my usual spot when I have given up on trying to sleep, watching the sun as it rises higher and higher over the valley, and clamber quickly back into bed. It occurs to me I don't need to pretend to have slept, but this force of habit has become something almost embedded in me. 

  "Ruby?" The voice calls from beyond the door. Uncle Deacon's early morning rasp rattles in his voice. "Are you awake, darlin?" 

  "Come in," I reply, sitting with the sheets draped over my tucked in knees. 

     He is still in his shirt from the night before, the vague scent of whiskey present on his breath as he enters the room. He's not drunk, per se, but I doubt that bottle has taken its leave just yet. He takes stock of my room, in its still half-unpacked state, mouth tight and unmoving. "Is everything okay?" I offer. 

     My words seem to rouse him from his thoughts as he moves further into my room, headed for the window for a seat. 

  "I just heard you up and about and wanted to see how you're settlin' in," he smiles with a small sigh. Exhaustion coats the dark circles under his eyes. "It's been a few weeks now, and, well, it's definitely not been what I expected."

  "Less partying?" I scoff, a hint of bitterness escaping me with my words. 

     It catches him off-guard as he shifts his eyes directly to meet mine. 

  "No, that's not what I meant, darlin'," he offers, placating me. "Just that you've taken a lot of big changes in your stride and--" he takes a breath, searching for meaning, "It's alright if you're struggling."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, digging deeper at his hesitance. 

  "I hear you in the night, the floorboards creaking with your pacing. Any hour I'm up, you're up."

     There is an urge within me to lie, suddenly, to tell him he must be dreaming, blame it on the winds or a ghost wandering in the night, the truth too heavy with shame to dredge up now, dragging like chains on the wooden beams below us. My heart quickens and my hands tug at the sheets for a distraction. 

  "I find it hard to sleep sometimes," I reply, half-heartedly.

  "Is it the bed? We can get you a new one," he jumps in. "That bed is old, I know, but I didn't have much notice of you comin' to stay before--" 

     The guilt of his worry chokes me, words struggling to find their way to him, a million miles between us. 

  "No--" I push. "It's not the bed. The bed is fine, it's just me," a forced smile is thrown to him with my answer, to hopefully distract him away from the questions, to take his mind to anywhere else, tears forming in my eyes that I blink away. 

      And before I can say anything else, he nods, in a way I wish he wasn't. There is nothing that is being said aloud but he nods, knowingly, like I have spilt my nightmares on the floor for him to see. I want to hide, a sense of vulnerability washing over me that I wish desperately to ignore. To leave this moment behind, on a greyhound bus heading west of anywhere else.