Chasing Trains

Chapter One

Chapter 1

I awake to the sound of banging cupboards and stomping feet. The sound of plates slammed down onto the table and silverware thrown down with it. I awake to my dog whining, aggravated with the noise. I awake half empty, with a feeling that something inside me is missing, that something inside me has been taken from me. I awake wishing I was going to sleep.

I reluctantly pull myself out of bed and begin getting ready. The noise downstairs is deliberate, a passive-aggressive way of telling me that he's angry with me. As I walk downstairs, I dread the interaction that's about to take place. The feeling becomes even more intense with the realization that it's Saturday. There's no school to run off to today, nowhere to hide.

I walk into the room, a yellow kitchen with a huge window revealing the perfect sun outside. Bacon and French toast are cooking, filling the whole room with the smell of home cooking. The room should give off life and love, except it's not. You can almost feel the tension in the air.

"Hey, how's it going?" I say, not entirely keeping the annoyance out of my voice. These days I almost always feel annoyed by something, but it's always worse when I'm around him. He ignores me, besides a glare. He sits down, and glares at me, which I take as my cue to join him. I fight the urge to run, and lower myself into a seat. Running will just make things worse; it will trigger him. I need to avoid the triggers. We start eating in silence. The silence is oppressive, force almost as strong as a physical slap. The longer the silence, the worse the fallout. Luckily, today he seems to be in a hurry, and starts earlier than normal.

"Nice of you to join me. You knew! You knew I had to be into work by 11, and yet you couldn't get your butt up until now to see me. I'm working all day, and I had to work last night, yet here you are, rolling out of bed at 9:30. Thanks for this great start of my day Summer, I really appreciate it." With that, he stands up and storms off, which is what he does in pretty much every single argument. I know he's really just upset he has to work all weekend, but I hate being his punching bag. The result is that I usually hide in my room upstairs. Coward's way out, I know, but I just don't feel like dealing with the constant confrontation.

The altercation is small today, weirdly small. Still, my heart is rapidly beating inside my chest from it. I hate how much of an effect he has on me. I hate that I can never stand up to him. I look over and see the mess he's left, a huge spread he's left on the table. Which it will now be my job to clean up. I start, careful not to break anything. I can't imagine the war that would ensue if that happened. 20 minutes later I finally finish. I go upstairs before my dad can come back out, and turn on some TV.

Before he leaves I can hear him complain to himself, "all she ever does is stay in her room. She never wants to be apart of the family". I want to shout back that there is no family. There hasn't been in some time now. Not since mom left, not since he started drinking again, not since he lost his job in the recession, and had to take whatever he could get. We're not even going to be able to have this house in a year, let alone a family.

Instead of that, I say nothing. My anger sits like a rock in my chest. He shouts bye before he leaves. Tonight he will act like nothing happened, and will be nothing but happy. God help me if I don't play along. I'm just glad he's out of the house. I hate his mood swings. I hate the feeling of guilt after he's left, and not completely understanding why the feelings there.

The next few hours pass in a semi-peaceful haze. I watch TV after he leaves to calm myself down; I get really angry when he gets like that. So angry sometimes it scares me. Despite the fact that I find most TV programs to be dreadfully boring, it's one of the only things that will calm me down. One of the only things that will help get that rock to go away. So I watch in a halfhearted way until I feel better. Later, I hear a door bang open and hear him muttering to himself. I hear the sound of a bottle being opened. The muttering soon stops after. I guess his lips are too busy to say what a terrible person I am, too preoccupied with other things. I force myself to ignore it at first and focus on my homework. Eventually, I hear the early warning signs. The muttering picks up. His feet stomp without rhythm, as he attempts to haul himself around our kitchen. The TV downstairs turns on and is blasted to a deafening volume. I look over at my clock, 7 pm. The usual time, and of course he will be perfectly fine tomorrow and will act like nothing has happened.