Delicate Scars

Chapter Two

By the time I make it back home, it's already dark outside. Being in the summer air with music drowning out my thoughts was all I wanted to do with my day. I just walked and walked and walked until my legs ached. I'm not entirely sure how I didn't get lost somewhere. It was like my feet knew where to take me, I just followed them.

"I saved you some Italian," my dad shouts from the kitchen. His head is shoved under the sink, probably fixing some plumbing problem. Another thing to add to the list of reasons why I hate this house.

"I got some food while I was out," I lie.

"I'll put it in the fridge for tomorrow then. It should be alright to reheat, right?"

He usually asked my mother these questions. She'd roll her eyes and make fun of him for his inability to cook and he'd wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close, insisting that he didn't need to know how because he had her. She was always the best at cooking.

"Should be." I shrug.

I kick my shoes off near the door and head upstairs. "Night," my dad calls up after me. My heart clenches when he doesn't call me honey or pumpkin pie, but I ignore it. It's what I wanted after all.

Once I make it to my room, I shut the door behind me. All my stuff is still packed away in a box sitting atop my desk. A job for tomorrow. My curtains are still wide open, the bird crap even brighter against the night sky. I march over and pull them closed.

It takes me forever to finally fall asleep. Despite being wrapped up in my own comforter on my own bed, nothing feels the same anymore. My room's different. The town's different. I'm different. And that's what haunts me in the darkness that night. Nothing will ever be the same again.

I wake with a jolt. My eyes dart around the room in a panic until I realize where I am. The nightmare that haunted me last night, the same one that has haunted me for the past month, was only made worse by being in a place I don't know. My limbs are still shaky, caked in sweat despite my comforter being thrown to the floor. My throat is painfully dry, and my hair is sticking to my face. My heart still races in my chest.

I push myself up onto my elbows and swallow the nausea that hits me. Another thing I hate about this house. The bathroom is downstairs. At home, it was opposite my room, meaning I could sneak over on the tips of my toes and gulp water from the faucet without alerting my dad that I'm awake. Now I have to go all the way down the stairs.

Begrudgingly, I wrap my robe around me- one of the only things I unpacked- and head to the kitchen. The stairs creak beneath my feet. Adding that to the list.

"Why are you walking down the stairs like you just robbed the place?" My dad laughs with one hand on his chest like always.

"I didn't realize you were awake."

"I've been up a couple hours now unpacking," he admits. His eyes don't meet mine when he says it. He opens the fridge and peers inside it. "You hungry? We've got- yeah, all we've got is leftover Italian food. You fancy that?" He jokes.

"I think I'm just going to stick with water."

"Suit yourself."

I almost forget that these are new cabinets in a new house, and I'll have to relearn where everything is again. "Glasses?" I ask for now. I'll figure out where the rest of the stuff is later.

"To your left." He points past my head.

I fill one with water and take three large gulps before I even begin to feel satisfied. It soothes the cracks that feel as though they're running down every inch of my throat but barely. Without realizing it, I take a seat across from my dad at the table. Just like old times. He raises his brows but doesn't question it.