The Second Author

Chapter Six (revised)

Mom didn't say anything at dinner. Not that I'm surprised. She probably needs a few days to remember why she hates me. Maybe one of these days I'll find out. I mean, I know Taylor was her favorite. But that is not all. There's something she's not telling me; the real reason why she hates me.

After dinner, I helped Dad clean up and then headed upstairs. I didn't realize how much I missed Dad while I was gone. Talking to him, even the little I have, has made me feel a lot better.

I reach the top of the stairs and then turn right. My room's at the end of the hall, straight ahead. I pass the hall bathroom, take two steps and freeze.

My eyes are locked onto Taylor's bedroom door, just to the right of mine. In big colorful letters, her name is written across it. I lean into the wall behind me, across from her door, and stare. So many things rush through my head I can't possibly pick just one to dwell on.

A floorboard creaked to my right and broke me from my trance. Mom stood at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall at me.

She didn't have to say anything. The look on her face spoke for her. It's the same condescending scowl I've seen my whole life. Every time I saw it, I knew whatever came out of her mouth wouldn't be good.

"It should've been you."

I know. I say that to myself every day, think of it all the time, dream it was me behind the wheel. I know, Mom, and for once I agree. Your perfect daughter should have lived.

She lingered a second longer, looking for my reaction. She was hoping for a look of hurt, shock, maybe rage. But I refused to let my expression change. And that hurt her more than any words I could've said. She turned and went into her room, closing the door behind her.

I exhaled, releasing the air I didn't know I was holding. Five months. Can I really deal with THAT every day for five months?

I glanced back up at Taylor's door. That voice in the back of my head reminded me of why I came back.

I put my left hand on my doorknob, turning it, and walking in. I close the door behind me and then lean into it. I look at my room. I'd almost forgotten what it looked like.

My full bed sat in the middle of the back wall, an old wooden chest at its feet. In the far-left corner, by the bed, are my two bookcases, which go to the ceiling. Each one is only half full. The rest of the space has other junk on it.

To my left, next to the large closet, is my desk, where I do homework. A large window separates the bookcases from the desk. The walls are pure white, no pictures. My plan was to find something for them, but I never found anything I liked. Shag grey carpet covered the floor. I meant to change that, too.

I walk across my room to the bed, leaving the light off. The curtains in the window were still open, letting in the moon light that's bouncing off the snow. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and set it on the nightstand as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I stared at the wall in front of me. My hand touched the bed, and I turned my gaze to it. I fingered the purple and black checkered pattern on the quilt. I sighed, completely exhausted from the day.

I let myself fall back, onto the bed. I stare at the ceiling, trying to focus on only one thought. When I fail, I close my eyes. Next thing I know, I'm not in my room anymore. I'm outside. I'm twelve years old.

I sat down on our old swing set and began pumping my legs, making myself go faster. I was constantly adjusting my hands, afraid my fingers would get stuck in the chains, like last time. I know Mom wouldn't be happy with me if I broke two more fingers. But I smile anyway, refusing to give up the swing because of it.