Waves

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Have you ever had to fight yourself over a feeling? Personally I couldn't get the thought out of my head that something had been in that field with me. More like someone, but it just didn't feel right. Almost as if the field itself was anticipating the disasters to come. A shiver runs through me at the thought and I internally yell at myself. I'm being ridiculously paranoid and I need to knock it off. Just because my family is going through a rough patch doesn't mean that the world is about to end. Changing my thinking track I start to think about what I'll make for dinner when I get home. What will Michael even want? I can't help but crack a smile at that thought. Michael is a pig and will eat anything and everything I make. Now that I think about it Michael has football practice today until eight. I groan out loud.

He's going to be ravenous and he's probably going to bring John. Michael and John have been best friends since they both started playing football in the seventh grade because both we're forced. Now however they love the game and the two of them are inseparable. Digging my key out of my bag I walk the last few feet up our steps to the front door, quickly unlocking it, and walking in. Taking a deep breath I try to calm myself down as I look around the house. Unfortunately my mom died after giving birth to me and Lacey. Now my aunt and dad fight all the time and I'm just waiting for one or both of them to leave. April my aunt, is trying to get him to realize that he still has two kids who need him and he's trying to figure out why she isn't more upset. Which isn't fair to her because he doesn't see her crying at night in the kitchen with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. He doesn't watch her fall apart in the dark, trying to stay quiet so she doesn't hurt us more. He never sees anything anymore because he's too overcome with his own grief to care about anyone else's, but I just can't seem to blame him for it.

I can't blame my aunt either, because I try my hardest to do the same thing so I don't hurt Michael more. Anyways our living room is decorated in dark shades of brown and rich red, with the couches on the right side and the flat screen across from them. Closing the door behind me I head up the stairs (they're to the right of the door, starting in the living room) still thinking about what I'll make for dinner. Once I'm up the stairs I turn to the right and go in my room. Mine and Michael's rooms are the only thing up here and his is right across the hall. My room revolves around purple and zebra stripes. I have a window seat, a huge walk-in closet, and my T.V. is across from the bed so I can see it from my bed or window seat. To the left of my window seat is two book-shelves filled to the brim with all of the books I could get my hands on. The middle shelf holds my diary, but no one except me knows that. Next to my walk-in closet is my bathroom and after plopping my bag onto the window seat I head into the bathroom. Opening up the medicine cabinet I take a valium, hoping to get rid of my paranoia. When I'm done I head back in my room and about five minutes after I kick off my shoes I hear shuffling down stairs.

Freezing in my spot I listen intently trying not to freak out. No one else is supposed to be home yet. Glancing out the window I see my dad's car in the drive and it looks as if it's still running. Eyebrows furrowed and heart pounding I quietly head down the stairs moving towards the sounds. Walking into my dad's study I stop in the doorway and stare. He isn't here but you can tell the room has been ransacked. There isn't anything left, the room is completely bare. My stomach churning I keep walking towards the noises knowing I won't like what I find but at the same time knowing I have to make sure. Just as I thought he's in his room, and like his office it's practically bare.

I watch as he throws the picture album back onto his bare bed and throw his antique vase he got from mom on their first anniversary into the box on the dresser. I see him clutch at his hair and bend over as if in pain before he shoots up, grabs the photo album I made him and throw it across the room. When it hits the wall on the opposite side of the room I can't help but flinch. Whirling around with the box in his hand he freezes as soon as he see's me in the doorway. His black hair is ruffled, has has a five o'clock shadow, and his hazel eyes have black bruises under them. His face is red and splotchy but determined.