Absence - Riley Matthews

one

It's 3 AM.

Not the best time to take a photograph without lights or a flash or even high speed film. But yet, here I am, propped up against the hood of a generation old Ford that I should be able to drive by now, camra tilted at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the full moon before it hides away behind the next curtain of cloud.

My car creeks as I slide off, and creeks once more when I open the scratched car door to climb inside.

Once the lock is down and in place, securing me from the outside, I curl up in the back of the car, taking up both seats.

I have five hours to pull myself together.

Five hours until I am forced to forget.

But I know I wont.

Fifteen minutes go by.

A bald patch of the seat had formed from the many nights I had slept in here, slowly pulling at the artificial fur. Small white flurries were scattered across the floor. It was something to keep me busy. If you're busy then you cant think, right? That's what I want. To not have to think.

By four-thirty, I'm still awake, increasing the size of the growing patch on the seat. The light in my bedroom flickers on from the house, then the hall.

The lights make their way to the front door until mom is seen swinging the door open, wrapped in a bath robe, clutching it so it is not to fall off.

I reach over the seat to the flashers and click them twice, and watch as she slowly makes her way back inside.

I wasnt able to sleep until late. Around six.

My dad wakes me up with a fist tapping at the window closest to my face.

"Looks like there's been a blizzard in there," he jokes.

The patch is now huge, fluff all around the floor, and my hand absolutely aches.

-

I take the long route to school.

My new schedule is folded as small as physically possible deep in my front pocket.

I keep my head lowered, shoulders slouching, hoping and praying that no one sees me.

Not out of embarrassment, but because if they did, they would undoubtedly offer a ride. They would probably want to talk about Maya, and then I would have to stare down at my folded hands like an idiot.

Or if they didn't, there would just be a long silence, and that would be nearly as bad.

As I continue on the wide sidewalk, hands buried deep into my jacket pockets, the gravel like sound of a skateboard on the pavement becomes audible.

I don't even have to look.

Only one person skates to school.

Farkle Minkus.

He doesn't say anything, instead he just pushes ahead, then slows and waits for me to catch up, then he repeats.