HOME | DD

Description
The sky here is so clear, besides the life that the tiny clouds bring to it. Each pure white fluff kisses the other in greeting. Their laughs ride the breeze that tousles my golden hair any way it pleases with it's playful little fingers. The wind, the eager little gypsy it is, wraps itself around me and hugs me tight before settling me down into a garden of wheat. I take a deep breath of the moving air before it leaves me on my feet, my lungs overflowing with the scent of warm summer honeysuckles.
Vibrant green mountains are reflected in the smear of a chattering lake which gives itself willingly to the lambs and lions that need it to survive. I pass between either of the friendly creatures and run my hands along their coats, one spongy and tangled, the other slick and smooth. I see the lions golden skin jerk as my nails dig for one more deep stroke. He purrs! It's just how you'd imagine a cat to purr, but louder, more delighted. The lion smiles and plops onto the ground, a puff of sand spreading out from around his large body. The lamb folds its legs under itself and lets me use her as a pillow so I can watch the sunset disappear into an orange line on the shore of the ocean that grows closer to me with each breath, billowing over the sea of wheat. The mist from the crashing waves hit my face but doesn't sting my eyes.
Amongst this all I hear something in the distance that doesn't belong. It grates against my mind, makes me cringe. Of course it's not in this world… not here. Nothing with that sort of soul belongs here. And then I can hear tears falling. Prickling my arms and rolling off of my checks. I smile in spite of that. Of course I'm imagining things. Nothing is here but utter perfection. I'll be back again.

-------------------------

It was another morning where I awoke to the serenade of my parent's strained voices that beat my alarm. The two battling discordances each tried to bellow more robustly than the other, the height of the duet always the point where the two voices were at their limit and could not longer force out another word. A heart wrenching scream, and the sound of skin hitting skin would always be soon to follow. The closing of the morning opening is the same as it always is: the slamming of the large chestnut door in the living room, and the roar of an engine that wails through the neighborhood, haunting me as I crawl out of my bed. Scene one of the day is over. This is my usual alarm. This is a morning just like any other.
Each day I come from my room after carefully brushing my hair in the mirror and placing on my school uniform. I leave off the lights. I feel to make sure the silky black tie is centered just right along the middle of my neck and each ebony button is in its place against my white button-up. The row moves smoothly up my straight torso and average-sized chest, a knee length black skirt making the uniform all the more colorless and plain.
I'm numb to my parent's performance when I walk into the main room, catching a glimpse of a beer bottle clasped my father's trembling and drunken hand. It thuds to the floor dully, the remains of the amber liquid inside of it oozing out onto the champagne red rug that's the center piece of our living room. Luckily I don't have to clean it, and neither do they. It wouldn't hurt to be more grateful, though, would it? I can only help but think about poor Cecelia scrubbing the carpet until her fingers go raw and her back goes out, just because Warren is too dumb to keep his damn hand around a stupid bottle. He shouldn't be drinking this early in the morning anyways! He has to go off to wherever he does this time in the morning. Some business building somewhere.
The putrid scent from that man's breath wafts around the place I hardly consider a house, mixing with the stained scent of expensive cigars. The two smells swirl around in an awful cyclone with an accent of mom's perfume. I can only wonder where she's gone off to, but wherever it is I don't blame her. We all need an escape and hers just so happens to be in spending money on whatever floats her fancy, be it bodies or furniture.
I squint through the morning film, the sun not yet turning the sky the beautiful orange sherbet color of my dream. My shoes tug against the depth of the carpet as I try not to look at the salt and pepper head of my father, and especially his eyes. My eyes, really. We share the same deep blue ones. Sometimes we make eye contact, rarely, and my eyes start to sting terribly. Seeing the same color staring back at me in such a body like his is painful. I hate that feeling that grips and twists my stomach so violently. I clutch my school briefcase in my hand as I moisten my lips before speaking as if to prepare them for the words about to come out.
"You should get ready for work." I say as I come to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen, my back to my father, my skirt swaying back and fourth once more with the force of my stopping. I hear nothing for a moment and my leg begins to bend towards my breakfast. But then there's a laugh.
"Worried about your ole' pa are you, Lily? At least you are… your selfish bitch of a mother isn't…"
I twist the leather handle in my hands tighter and hear my feet hit the marble tile of the kitchen floor, propelling me through my daily weekday routine.
I can't say anything to that. I don't even know if I'm worried or not. This feeling towards him has been stewing in me ever since I was old enough to put two words together. It's not worry or concern, I don't believe. He's brought this all upon himself, he deserves the consequences and I believe that strongly. So it can't be worry. It's more of a disappointment in myself to not be able to influence him, or even think about standing up to him and telling him what's on my mind once and for all. It's hate of myself for not doing what needs to be done, and showing him that I do care about his health, about his life. Yes, it's self hate maybe. Maybe.
I run the tip of one of my fingers along the globe of a healthy looking orange, its dimples creating a pleasant sensation, each little dip reminding me that its lack of a smooth surface isn't imperfection, just part of what it is. I snatch it and dig my nails into peal, throwing away the outsides and interrogating the insides, ripping apart each slice and placing them on a plate, going over to the table with a glass of 2% milk. I separate each little smile that the orange had into two pieces, bursting a pod of juice against my plate before I had entertained myself long enough and ate the remainder of the fruit quickly.
I shuffle past the living room more swiftly then needed after I disposed of my dishes in the sink, surprised to see that my father had actually gone to get dressed as I suggested. I know it wasn't my doing, but I can't help but a feel a weight leave my consciousness as I head outside to my 2009 golden Nissan.