Mia Hill. College bound with an athletic scholarship. A go-getter with big dreams and a fully thought out plan to make sure they come true.
But with her father's release from prison looming and the inevitable stresses of adulting, everything she wa...
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The steady shake of my hand is one I haven't actually felt in a while. It's one I used to feel a lot. One that used to wake me up, tear me from the dark depths of sleep. It's the same shake that came over me this summer, the last time I had a nightmare. I know what spurred that one on. The idea of Grayson getting behind the wheel after a few lousy sips of a beer catapulted me right back to a time when the nightmares consumed me.
Waking up this morning, no, being ripped from my sleep was for a whole other reason, one a lot more real. I thought I had grown out of them. That time had healed and all that crap the therapist told me would happen when I was a kid. And though the two nightmares were a couple months apart, they're still here. I think they always will be. Try as I might, something always brings me to that day. Like a yo-yo, I'm always yanked back.
Tommy's text nearly two weeks ago gave ten days until my dad's parole hearing, and those ten days have come and gone. I know he said things get pushed back, but it's had me on edge all week.
I've been distracted, from my classes, from practice. I can't stop checking the website everyday, waiting to see what the results are. It's exactly why I'm currently staring at my laptop, the bookmarks tab pulled open as various saved tabs taunt me.
The one shining the brightest, taking center stage on my screen is labeled California State Records. It's been there for months, taking up residency in a saved digital space. I've been staring at the name for the last...I don't even know how many minutes have passed. I know that my hand is still shaking, I know that my breaths haven't fully settled since I woke. And I know that, today, unlike the other days, there's an answer waiting for me on that screen. I can't fully explain how I know, but I do. It's the very reason I'm still staring, terrified to actually open the link.
I take another deep breath, closing my eyes briefly, gathering all possible strength before I click. The tab launches open, the screen taking its sweet ass time to load. Once it pops up, I slowly type his name and various information into the empty spaces, just as I have every time I stare at the blue and white background. I've saved this page and referenced it a lot more lately. Ever since this summer when I knew his release was a possibility. It's been somewhat of a safe haven, checking to see that he's still there, his original parole date still intact. That safety net is breaking though, worn down around the edges and giving way.
As I scroll down the page, I locate his mugshot first, the very one I've stared at for years. The one that holds the face of a man I once knew. But it's been thirteen years since I've actually seen his face, at least, outside of my nightmares.
I let my gaze shift slightly, rolling over his name and landing on his parole status. I cling to the date beside his name, frozen on the day and month that's now displayed.
Vincent Hill - Qualified for parole; October 30th
The air has left my lungs, the reality that he'll have actually completed his sentence in three weeks slams across my chest. It's heavy, so damn heavy as that weighted night plays back across my eyes. The yelling, the noise, the silence. Sometimes the silence is so much louder than the ruckus.
