Writing in Orion's Belt

Who Am I

"Mace? Get your last boxes down here so we can load them into the moving van", my fathers loud and demanding voice can be heard through my bedroom window. I peek my head out and give a quick "sure dad", followed by a sarcastic thumbs up. 

He does not appear pleased with me, but then again, when does he ever. My father is the kind of person that never laughs at a joke, even those rare ones that have me spilling tears from laughing so hard. You can say he's a pretty serious guy. Always looking at you with an non-impressed face or my personal favourite, "Why can't my teenage daughter take things seriously for once face". The latter I see often, and that's mainly because we are nothing alike. If we were two peas in a pod, we would strangle each other. We don't have a lot in common. For example, I am a night owl, and he is a morning person. Enough said. 

"I swear that girl only knows one language: sarcasm", I hear my mother voice her complaints to my father outside. My mother is also not one to take jokes lightly. She is the everyday pain in my rear. Always telling me how to do things properly and never forgetting to remind me how I messed something up. She has a real OCD for things being done a certain way, but it gets frustrating when you feel like all you do is screw things up. 

Not that she is a bad mother, just a very closed off one. I don't think she even has any girl friends her age to hang out with. She is always with my father, having late night conversations in his study. 

When I was around five or six, a while after my accident, I had trouble sleeping at night. Terrifying nightmares of monsters taking me away kept me up until dawn. I used to walk around the house and see my parents talking and holding up papers of some kind in my fathers study.

One night, I heard them shouting and watched from around the corner as they stacked a bunch of papers together in a cardboard box. They mentioned my name and I let out an audible gasp. That resulted in me given away my hiding spot and my mother coming out to put me back to bed. My last memory was of my father standing by the door, the glowing light of the the candle in the room, slowly fading out of sight as he shut the door. 

That's the last one, I think excitedly as I jump on my bed for the last time in this room. We were moving....... again. This is the eight time we moved in my whole life due to my parents "business". I'm not even sure what it is they do exactly, I just know they work together to run a on a company. That requires them to move from city to city, country to country. 

Right after the accident when I was four years old, my parents packed everything and moved from Seattle, Washington to a small, unknown town in Arkansas. Population: ghostsville, with only  about 498 people. We lived there for about eight months, when my parents began to act strangely and one night we were up and moving to the sunny state of Florida. 

Our current location, for now anyways, is Boone, North Carolina. A charming, but very unknown town with a lot of history I just never bothered to learn. I knew it was too good to be true, to stay here permanently for once. I should be grateful I was homeschooled all my life. Moving to new schools, having to make new friends constantly, then saying goodbye. It is just easier this way, since I don't have many friends. My parents didn't trust other children. The story was that my mothers younger brother, Aiden, was abducted at the age of two in a park, while his grandmother was talking to another boys mother. They never found him, and her parents went crazy after that. Leading to both of their suicides when my mother was eighteen. 

When I was four years old, I had a tragic accident where I lost any memory of my previous years. I couldn't remember anything except for waking up in a bed, and being burned under the worried stares of these two people that called themselves my parents. They said I fell off my bike and hit my head hard on the pavement. There appeared to be some bruising on my arms and a hard bump on the back of my head. I was four at the time, with no previous memory of myself or them, so I did what any child my age would.