As the refreshing breeze of this summer day wafts through the air, blowing my hair back, I keep my eyes forward as I think to myself, I've never felt this tired and drained. I'm tired of feeling the painful emotion of sadness, guilt that eats me alive until I believe I'll be a shallow shell of who I used to be.
I know people think I'm weird. I'm the girl who hates music. I mean, who hates music? Me—that's who. I do everything to not hear a single chord of music in my life.
I drive in my car in silence, I read in my room in silence, and I also do my homework in silence. To others, music is therapeutic. It relaxes them. Other people sing along and dance to the rhythm, but I freeze as my heartbeat quickens.
All the memories I have bottled away always seem to arise when I hear melodies. Others scream and dance. I just cover my ears and wish it all to go away. Don't be fooled. I wasn't always this way. I used to love music. I even used to sing. Music was my life. That all stopped that one sunny afternoon four years ago when not only did my happiness drain from me, but also the things that I loved.
Everything was taken from me ...
I loved dancing around my room in my PJs. I especially enjoyed going to concerts with my best friends that I had. Now, they're gone too. I pushed them away. I run from my problems now. I run from my feelings, run from pain, happiness—everything.
Those distant memories of me and my father sitting on our front porch, singing together lightly while he strummed his guitar, are something that I dream of now. My dad would call me downstairs every night. We would both sit down on the bench swing hanging out front. He would smile down at me with the smile I now miss dearly and start singing. I remember growing up and always being comforted by his voice, how soft it was and how safe it made me feel. He would always dedicate every song to me, making me feel in awe of how much he loved me. As I grew up, he taught me his ways. I grew more comfortable with my singing abilities and would sing with him for hours on end.
But that stopped the sunny afternoon they killed him. He was killed by a stray bullet.
It went right through his heart, and he was dead on the scene. When my mom heard the news, she dropped to the ground in tears, already mourning the loss of her husband. All I could do was stand there in shock. I couldn't believe what I had heard. I couldn't believe it till I saw him.
The entire drive to the hospital, I kept reassuring myself, He's not dead. He can't be. He's probably on life support. Anything would have been better than him being dead. As Mom and I walked through those doors leading to the emergency room, I was quickly snapped out of my positive thoughts.
A poor mistake to keep my hopes up.
He's dead. He's really dead.
No more hugs and kisses. No more drives to school and no more songs.
As I looked down at his lifeless body, pale skin as if he'd been dead for years, I felt the life inside me drain out. It was as if my heart had been ripped out, squeezed, and laughed at in the murderer's hand. The tightness in my chest made it really hard to breathe, causing me to run out of the depressing white hospital room. Finding the nearest trash can in the hallway, I let up all the bile arising in my throat. The bitter taste made me gag into the stinky garbage.
Not only have I hated music since that day, but I also have so much bottled-up anger toward my dad's killers. They walked away from the scene without a single scratch, living in this world like they hadn't killed an innocent man. Left his wife and daughter alone to fend for themselves now. I hate them. I want them to rot in jail for the rest of their lives.
We haven't gotten justice yet, and every day that they're not found, it feels more impossible to find them.
So impossible ...
My brain tells me that we won't ever find them, that they'll be free to live the rest of their lives how they please—just how my dad was supposed to. It takes a lot of energy to push those thoughts aside and look at the positives.
That explains why I have trust issues, depression, and anger. All I am now is cold and distant. I don't trust people, and I never will, although I wish I could. I cry a lot ... and when I hear music, I turn it off. Too many memories, too many heartaches. I can't bear it.
When there are reports regarding a new singer or a band on the news, I turn down the volume until it's over. At night, sometimes, my mind drifts off into what-ifs.
What if I'd recorded his voice while he was singing? Would I remember it the same?
Would I be as sad as I am right now?
Would I be a different person?
And would I be strong enough to turn on the radio and listen to a damn song?
I know Mom is depressed. She hides behind her smiles and hugs. But I can tell otherwise. Since that day, she's tried to do everything to make me happy, and I return the favour. She's the only one I have. I can't imagine—and hope I never understand—the feeling of losing a husband so brutally as she did. Some days, I find her more distant. She's gone for most of the day, and she heads up to her room immediately after work. I'm not sure why she's suddenly pulling back from me, avoiding me like I have a deadly disease. It hurts. But I treat her how Dad would have wanted me to.
He would have wanted me to love her just like he did ...
Love this town like he did.
We live in a small town. Our medium-sized house lies on big acreage. We don't have any crops or farm animals. My dad was just interested and loved the idea of—and I quote—"farmland and living in clean air." I hated it here at first. No one's around us, just one house miles away next to ours. I can see their front porch and a couple of windows clearly from my window. It's white with black shutters, and a Sold sign is stuck in the ground, blowing in the wind. The nice elderly couple who used to live there for many years decided that they needed to downgrade.
I can't help but wonder, Who's going to move in there? Will they be nice? Do they have children my age who would look at me like I'm a freak?
Probably.
Our small town is an hour away from the lively city of Toronto. Our main street is lined with self-owned businesses, coffee shops, and bakeries. Basically, it's like every town you see in a Hallmark movie.
Luckily, the last day of school was two days ago. I hated driving to school for more than an hour in the morning. My tired eyes couldn't handle the bright sun and the long, winding road ahead. As you can tell, I'm not a morning person.
Yet a positive is that I graduated high school. I'm now free of the hell people call school. Knowing I don't have to walk through those miserable halls, sit in the tight desks, and eat terrible cafeteria food that more resembled shit than food is a relief.
The only negative is not seeing my dad in the crowds at my graduation, in the seat beside my mom, where he is supposed to be.
This entire town is a reminder of him.
The one thing that I adore here is the silence. It's peaceful. The forest around my house looks like the forest Bella, the main character in Twilight, lives next to. I've always referred to that as a flex in my life. Hardly any cars drive by. And if they do, I always go to the window and look. Curiosity gets the best of me.
I'm not crazy, just lonely.
"You should go out more, sweetie. Have some fun," Mom says from behind me. Her fingers brush through my long, straight brown hair.
I smile at the feeling. I love when people play with my hair.
"I'm perfectly happy here, Mom." I look over my shoulder and smile up at her. "I'm happy here with you."
She nods her head and gives my forehead a kiss. "I'm glad you want to hang out with your old mom," she jokes and chuckles slowly, making me smile. "But don't you want to have fun with your friends ... maybe live a little?"
Shaking my head, I glance away from her hopeful eyes. Staring straight ahead, I pick up my spoon and scoop a spoonful of yogurt into my mouth.
"You can't keep avoiding people, Trinity. Your father—"
"Don't use that card on me, Mom. I'm trying every day to be better—you know this. It's just hard," I mumble, interrupting her.
She looks disappointed and shocked at my outburst. See, this is what I meant about the anger. I don't mean to raise my voice; it just happens.
"As your mother, I want what's best for you," she explains.
"I love you, Mom, but please let me deal with my own social life."
I know she wants to argue further, but she keeps her mouth shut and nods.
"I just love you," she whispers after a few minutes.
Turning in her direction, I face her. "I love you too, Mom. I know you want what's best for me, but I don't like when you pry like that."
Her hand cups my cheek. "I'll try to do better, honey."
I nod. "I'll try too."
Sitting in the chair ahead of me, she types on her phone for a few minutes before speaking into the silence. "Have you chosen which college you want to go to?"
God, I hate college talk.
Just thinking about how taking majors will define how my future goes makes chills travel up my spine.
"I'm deciding between two majors," I say simply, not wanting to get into the stressful topic.
"Which ones?"
Ugh. "Journalism and psychology."
She nods, biting the inside of her cheek as she cocks her head to the side. "Both really good options. I know you would be happy either way."
I laugh. "I hope." Fiddling with the ring around my finger, I worry. "I'm only eighteen. It's scary to think I'm figuring out my future right now. I have no idea what I want to do tomorrow, let alone twenty years from now." I throw my hands up in the air.
"Taking one day at a time is important—"
"I know; I know." I wave at her. "I'm just stressing out for no reason."
"You wouldn't be my daughter if you didn't overthink for stupid reasons," she jokes, bringing her coffee cup in the air, clinking it against mine.
"Amen to that."
***
"Come here, boy," I say happily to Simba.
My excited golden retriever puppy runs over to my bed and stands on his back legs. His golden fur shines due to the sunlight that beams into my room. He can't reach my bed yet since he's just a small puppy. Mom surprised me with him a couple of weeks ago. Even though I'm lonely, Simba fills a big part of my heart. He's always happy to see me, and that feels good. That feels refreshing.
"How's my boy doing?" I ask him.
I smile when his cute face comes closer to mine. Giving my cheek a kiss, he snuggles his head into my neck. Over the past couple of weeks, I've noticed how snuggly he is whenever I hold him. He always falls asleep in my arms, which is the most wholesome thing ever.
I truly do feel like a mom to him. He makes me feel like I have a purpose.
I smile and kiss his head softly. Reaching my hand over to my nightstand, I grab the book I'm currently reading. A forbidden, enemies-to-lovers romance with so much steam that I had to place it down a couple of times before resuming.
My love life might be nonexistent, but at least I fall in love with every fictional man I read about.
I look up and let my eyes roam over my bedroom. The wall opposite of my queen-size bed is a giant bookshelf. All my money goes to local bookstores. Reading is my new hobby since I don't do anything else with my life. Whenever I go somewhere, I take a book with me. Even if I don't plan on reading, it's always in my black leather backpack I carry around with me. Reading is therapeutic. It's like escaping to a world without actually escaping. I sometimes wonder how words on pages can bring me so much joy.
I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I see my phone light up, showing an incoming FaceTime call. Harper pops up on the screen, informing me that my best friend is calling me. She calls at least once a day. Sometimes, I pick up, and other days, I don't.
I'll give her credit; she's the only person who hasn't given up on me. I know she's tired of me, but she understands I want space. I'm super grateful for her.
I smile sadly down at the profile picture I placed for her. She's giving me a piggyback at an outdoor concert we went to one night before the shooting. Her tongue is sticking out playfully. My olive skin stands out, compared to her beautiful brown skin. I've known her since we were five. She's the sibling I never had, and I know my parents are practically her parents as well.
Well, just my mom now ...
I know I promised I would try, but I don't feel like talking today. I want to enjoy my book. Silencing my phone, I go back to reading.
***
I wake up with a start when my book goes crashing down to the floor from my bed, causing my heart to speed up from the sudden loudness. "Shit," I mutter and rub my sleepy eyes.
I glance down toward my lap and see Simba staring at me with his big chocolate-brown eyes. The sudden bang my book made must have startled him as well.
"Did that scare you too?" I ask him, and he whines. "Sorry, boy," I say as I pet his head.
Internally, I groan on the inside. My book closed ... without my bookmark inside of it.
"Just my luck."
As I reach down to the floor in an awkward position because of Simba lounging on my lap, I almost tumble to the ground. My hand stops me just before my head meets the hardwood floor.
Thank you, Jesus. You must've been looking out for me.
Simba jumps off my bed and runs out of my room in a hurry without looking back.
"Just my fucking luck," I repeat to myself but louder than before.
If I were him, I would have run away too.
My hands turn the book in all directions once I've picked it up. I hate when my books get damaged. I try to keep them in perfect condition. Even one crease and folded page will make me get the urge to buy a new copy. I'm a mess ... but at least, I'm a hot mess.
Placing my book on my bookshelf, I smooth my clammy hands down my bare legs. Breathing in and out, I let my fingers graze across multiple spines.
My attention is caught when I hear the roar of various engines outside. Who's driving down this road? It's like a ghost town here.
I pull my curtains aside. My eyes squint as I try to make out the cars in the distance. A car exhaust becomes louder, the closer it gets.
I press my forehead hard into the glass, and I frown when I see two fancy cars. An expensive white G-Wagon and a red Audi TT pull into the sold house beside ours.
What the hell?
"Trinity," Mom yells lightly from the hallway. Peeking her head through the door, she smiles at me. "Guess we have new neighbors!"
Great.