The night wore on and, before long, my dad was phoning; he was waiting outside, come to pick me up. My heart sank a little. It was always difficult to leave when you were having fun and I was already thoroughly invested in Nathan's latest anime, despite the fact that he would no doubt find another before I visited again. I thanked him, promised to give him a shout and said my goodbyes. The ride within the elevator was calm, and then I was outside, the cruel rain soaking into my boots, the fine snow turned to grey slush.
My dad idled before the McDonald's, his windshield wipers pounding hither tither. He himself was on his phone, his eyes drooping, his form sagging. Weighed down by another exhausting day, he had little to say as I gratefully sank into the warm compartment of the truck next to him. I myself was feeling fatigued and I leaned back in my seat, replaying the events of the day through my mind like a string of old film. It had been a decent episode, I decided, this day in my life; though weary, I was content. The engine purred and the truck began to move.
"So, how was your day?" my dad asked, sighing as he beheld the flooded road before him.
"Pretty good. Long," I admitted, "but enjoyable."
He smiled. "Good stuff."
"Long day?" I returned, watching as the shapes of wet trees sped past us.
"Yeah." Every word, every story and every ache within his beaten bones was described in that sigh. Not for the first time, I wondered if he or my mom were really happy, only feigning interest in daily intrigues. It was evident to me that their interest in my life was genuine, but that was not evidence for joy. They seemed always to be wilting, or else burning-lashing out at each other, volatile flames, they seemed to consume the sweet memories around them. Their work was taking its toll; beneath my parents eyes I could see bags, within them, desperation.
Suddenly sad for earlier days, I blocked out these thoughts. I was worried enough about Nathan, without this; this was beyond my control, and I knew it was ridiculous to fret over responsibilities, and trials, that were not my own. Yet I had to wonder after my brother who, just today, had seemed distant. Of course I tired him, to some extent; he wanted his own privacy, just as I yearned after my own whenever my mother thought to pull me from my own quiet world. Yet this was different; while usually reserved, he had grown steadily more solemn, the words resting unspoken upon his lips.
Why should Nathan be unhappy, though? He had expressed an interest in family before, but somehow it did not seem a priority to him. He liked his life. He enjoyed his freedom to do with as he pleased. If he were to become a husband-or even a father-gone would be the senseless hours of Call of Duty, the microwave meals, and the fear of dusting. Perhaps he was troubled by something else entirely. It could be that his job was growing stale, or else increasing in difficulty as people phoned in sick as a result of the weather.
The truck struggled up ice into the driveway and shuddered to a halt as the wheels threatened to slide into the yard. The lights came up as I opened my door and from the window, my dog hopped about the top of our grey couch, ecstatic to have two of his beloved master's home. I was less than ecstatic as my foot sank, ankle deep, into a large and frigid puddle. It was a series of splashes to the door and my socks were soaked through by the time I reached the dry haven of my home.
My mom was slumped in her chair, her eyes glazed over as she gazed at the screen of our ten year old television, which, remarkably, was still in decent condition, the colours still vivid, the characters appealing to the eye. In contrast, her hair was streaked through with grey and her face drawn, a product of her absurd hours. Her gaze was subsiding as sleep threatened to overtake her; my dad was already collapsing onto the couch, his neck snapping back, his mouth widening.
I found dinner on the counter. McDonald's was to be my consistent diet. For me there was another smoothie and a Quarter Pounder. I took the food without complaint, before making my way to the brown chair that, even now, was showing signs of wear from my pest of a dog.
"How are you?" my mom asked, smiling.
"Good," I muttered. I glanced out the window, and rubbed my eyes. The conversation died there and for that I was grateful. My words were spent, my energy nonexistent.
I turned in at ten and urged my thoughts to settle. In addition to today's events were those of the future. I pictured our final show tomorrow, and all the typical complications that always went with such a large task. I worried about the same moves, the props I had to attend. I wondered at the poor weather and how early I would have to prepare if I was to make it to school on time. I wondered where my life was heading. Would I ever be successful at my chosen vocation? Would I be satisfied, if I was not?
I closed my eyes and allowed all such worries to drain out one ear, gone to melt upon my pillow. I reassured myself that I would be content, if my plans went array. I promised myself that I would have to try, even if what I dared seemed impossible. Yet fear turned to inspiration and I found my eyes widening. Writing-my dream-was ever my comfort, my escape when I was troubled. What if someone else were in my shoes-a protagonist who could share my pain and relieve me a little of it?
I sat up, my idea taking hold. I seized my tablet and, though the light burnt my eyes, I continued to page through my Word documents, searching for the button that would allow me to begin anew.
Finding it, I smiled; this was where I belonged. This was my true life, my home away from home, and nothing could keep me from it. Despite having (for the most part) a great life, with interesting friends and a variety of hobbies, was it so terrible to say that that was all but a dream, when compared to the complex, and at times, agonizing, lives of my wild characters? For surly I lived in their world more than my own; every sentence was like a bridge to my soul, an entrance to that part of me that was true.
I started to write, unsaddling all my doubts onto my protagonist, this one a meek girl with a sad smile and thin hair that hung to her shoulders.
My grandfather was good to me, I wrote, picturing the tumult of emotion within her. We played together when I was very young, him whispering my secret dreams into my ear. We used to swing so high. The sky always seemed so close; I could reach out in those days and grasp the clouds, somehow now as elusive as my dreams.
When he died, my dreams died; with them all, I died as well. Nothing mattered anymore. It made no difference if the sky was blue or grey, because it was always black to me. All my interests were feigned; my joy was a façade. The sun did not shine.
How then could I aspire to be sadder than I already was? The tears were fierce upon my face as I witnessed my mother's words, each one a slap to my father. In the background sat one of my paintings, a stupid thing (I thought) in which a lonely bird cawed from a crooked tree.
My mother was edging toward the door, a suitcase in one hand, a fist in the other. Dad just stared after her, shaking his head. He was such a fun fellow, my dad; he was always laughing, enjoying such movies as Dumb and Dumber and Jack Ass. A joke was never far from his lips, the humour glinting always from his mischievous brown eyes. Yet now he looked as though he would never smile again.
My mother's eyes-my eyes-were ice, the blue reminiscent of the high mountain where we buried her father. Beneath the gaze of Medusa, my father was turned to stone...and I did nothing as she closed the door with a slam behind her.
I appraised my writing then. It was not me I spoke of; my eyes were brown. It was loosely based off my friend, Kaitlyn, whose parents, to my knowledge, had no discord within their marriage. It was not my favourite piece; it felt a little rushed to me. However, it was an outlet and onto this fictional Kaitlyn I projected all my worries, and all my fears. Would my parents ever divorce? Sometimes I could not be sure. Other times, I took myself to be a fool. They loved each other. They understood each other, possessing a similar sense of humour.
I could not help but recall a statement my mother had made, only roughly a year ago: "I loved you."
I looked on, helpless. "I loved you, so much. I tried to give you everything." At that moment I could not miss the past tense. I paused.
"I loved you," was quite a different fact from, "I love you." All the implications of that statement were that love had now ceased to exist.
All the implications of that statement were that love had now ceased to exist. It was all I cloud do not to break; already the cracks were showing, each cruel line running up my arms and legs as though I were made from China. A tiny piece of my painted eye melted away, the runoff coming to rest upon my cheek.
I turned away. Nobody would see me cry. Nobody would know what I knew-that my life, and everything in it, was a lie. My father had his own woes to contend with now, without having to worry over me.
Dear Kaitlyn's life was already rife with conflict, and heartbreak, without my adding to it. The details filled themselves in. Kaitlyn-her name changed to Laura within this text-had lost a great deal. The youngest daughter of four, she was overlooked. Dragged down by C's and self-doubt, nobody could predict a promising path for Kaitlyn, who shared the same dream as me. She was not like her older sister, Jane, graduated with scholarships and esteemed jobs. She was not like her eldest sister, Denise, whose sense of fashion was impeccable, her dark hair curling just so at the nape of her neck. She was not like her mother, the perfect cook and dutiful wife. She was not as anybody expected her to be, with her loose sweats and quiet voice. She was plain old Kaitlyn, a girl with more secrets than a thief's treasure chest.
I could never feel sorry for myself, when I thought of her. How like me she was, with her loose sweats and love of literature.
The dreams we shared of being an author were not easy ones to bear...but the doubt that stalked her in everything she did, like a vulture, was, for me, a gentle dove that cooed encouragement to me from my shoulder. We were one and the same, and yet we were very different.
Still, I burdened Kaitlyn-Laura-with my sparse concerns. Laura was fiction and it would do for her to bear my woes in my stead.
I massaged my temples; it was growing quite late now and I had school tomorrow, and a show to boot. The art of performance was another aspect that differentiated Kaitlyn from me; she was painfully shy and moderately lazy to boot. Despite invitation, she had vehemently declined any offer to join Musical Theatre.
Musical Theatre was my life for now; I could not afford to worry about anything else, whatever it might be. I could only close my eyes and prepare for what tomorrow would bring.