Philosophy of the Dark- Chapter 8. Mild use of language.
- Patterns that look like swirls
-but are really just dust in the dark
-On both accounts.
That's how it works, you roll over, take the punishment and hope to God that nobody finds out.
These were the three rules as stated by Richard the one, and only, time Jamie ever asked a question pertaining to his anger.
She couldn't just do that though, she needed someway to release her own anger, keep from becoming the smaller replica of the volcano that was her father. She tried about a dozen things, running, snapping rubber bands to her wrists, cutting-as already stated- and writing songs. None of them stuck.
Until one day, she looked back on the song she had spent hours working on, and realized, that it wasn't just a song. It was a story.
That was the explosion, that was the idea that began her world.
That was the day she tore the songs from her new red notebook, opened a fresh page and dared to dream. Dared of having something she could call her own. Her stories.
Whenever she got a burst of inspiration, another idea, or when something potentially life changing happened she would write it down, to keep from getting lost in the labyrinth that was her mind.
That's what she was doing when it happened.
The familiar sound of pissed of footfalls coming up the stairs was the first warning, loud cursing was the other.
“Shit,” Jamie said under her breath as she flipped the notebook shut. Her dad was almost to the door.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” she cursed quietly, desperately searching for something to do. Finally she picked up a book, and desperately opened it to a random page.
The calm before the storm, the few moments of deadly silence before the explosion. There was the silence.
Then was the explosion.
The door was pushed open with enough force to push a page-turning wind toward Jamie. She cringed as it's coolness lashed at her back. She held back a cry.
He didn't say anything for a while, Richard stood at her door, his anger growing force, second by silent second. Finally he stepped forward.
“Just what kind of death do you want, you worthless bitch?” he asked.
There was no answer.
“Because I assure you, that if you keep up whatever play you're going for,
it will be very, very unnatural.”
Silence.
“Answer me!” Richard yelled.
Jamie set her book down calmly and turned around as calmly as she could muster. Her heart beat furiously in her chest, slowly making it's way up to her throat slowly choking her.
“I don't understand,” she said with a surprisingly serene voice for the situation.
“You must be fucking stupid or something, you know very well what's going on! Or at least Amber does.”
Her heart reached the back of her throat, where it beat like a wild animal just as it realized it was trapped.
Amber.
What had she done?
And did she even know she'd done it?
“So what do you have to say for yourself, because if you want to live it'd better be good,” Ricard took a menacing step forward. Jamie flinched back unconsciously, making him smile.
“I really don't know what to say,” Jamie admitted.
“What exactly did you tell her, little bitch, why is she so concerned about you being here?”
“Why would you say she's concerned?”
“She fucking came here and asked if you were okay, how things between you and me were.” Richard's voice took on a disgusted tone, “What did you say?”
“I told her that I felt like you and me were growing apart,” Jamie answered.
“What would make you think we were ever connected, Bitch?”
“I used to have to look for bruises, now I have to look for ways to hide them. It's getting worse,” tears meant to be held back broke through, “I used to be able to convince myself that you cared, now every time I try I can't. All I ever wanted was for you to care about me, maybe say my name every once and a while. I wanted to know what love was other than just another form of hate.”
Richard's face fell, and for the first time Jamie could see lines that had woven themselves into his skin emerging from the sides of his eyes. The edges of his hair had a faded, dull look, graying strands offset ink black.
He turned and left the room, leaving Jamie alone. By some miracle she had avoided the hand. For now.
The room was dark now, no light pushed it's way through the curtains,none came from under the door. The only light came from the lamp, set to a low red glow, just enough to write.
Dust caught the small amounts of light that did show, reflecting as they waltzed through the stirring air. Swirling and twisting they navigated in relative circles, dancing to their own interpretation of the silence.
Some moved joyously and quick, moves filled with purpose and skips, while other floated slowly toward the ground, the inevitable fall.
***
I don't know what to make of it, the dust. One minute it's swirling patterns adding life to an otherwise barren existence, but the next seconds it's back to being dust, pointlessly making it's way back to the ground.
The more optimistic side of me wants to say that I've stirred something up, started something new, while the other part of me is waiting for that last one to hit the ground and open up the gates to hell. Mostly it's the second one.
It doesn't take long for you to forget the good in some people, especially if it was never visible.
But it's just dust, pointless, endless, waiting for the fall to end. Waiting to be stirred up again, just to fall right back down.
An endless cycle that life has condemned it to, sad thing is that it's all that can be looked forward to, the final fall. The last time it ever hits the ground.
Next instalment- Chapter 9- A fate worse than falling, On both Accounts. Now Posted. 
