sorry its a little long
Chapter 1
I remember the coldness of the water that hit my face that afternoon. Some of it found its way to my mouth just so I could taste the dirty bitterness. Jack Frost himself was turning each and every water droplet remaining on my face to icicles. It was like God himself giving me a freezing slap on the face for my behavior. I kept on thinking that it wasn’t my fault. That it was all an accident. That all of this would go away in a few days. It didn’t. I awoke from the calm escape of a coma with unfamiliar panting. I recognized the area around me as outside my house.
Why? I asked myself. I tried to remember everything that had happened up until then. Though, the more I thought, the more I was pushed into what was happening around me. Fire. There was fire all around me. Men in red suits yelled orders to each other, frantically hosing everything in sight. The luscious green farm that I knew was now soggy and brown. I was in panic. The sounds—the noises—started to creep up into my soul. Sirens blazed. Even though, I knew exactly where I was, nothing seemed at all welcoming. I was in a strange foreign place where fear ruled my brain and dread reigned through my soul. I had done something wrong. I put all these people in danger because of something I started. My stomach grumbled. It was the first of many to remind me of my deeds. Sweet, innocent tears crawled out of my eyelids and onto my Nothing was good. Nothing. I did not know where Mamma was. She left a note on the refrigerator for me to find in the morning.
“Aubrey,
I’ll be back before you know it.
Love and Kisses,
Mamma”
It was short and I thought nothing of it then, but now anger and fear rushed through my veins. Anger of why she wasn’t there to remind me to turn the stove off. Anger of why she just wasn’t there. Fear of what I was going to tell her. Fear because no one was there to comfort me. I was mistaken.
Fully submerged in my thoughts, I failed to see the young man standing in front of me. He carried a blood red bucket torn at the edges and the remnants of mud at its rim. I was still sitting on the ground though I was sitting up with my knees to my chin and arms clutching my legs. I had my face down and heart in a barely beating rhythm. I didn’t notice the warm hand reaching out for my sleeve.
Suddenly my negative thoughts came to a halt when I could feel another person’s fingers tugging at my arm. I quickly looked up in alarm.
“Are you ok?” the young man looked at me with stern eyes. They were the color of chocolate. His skin was a very light brown like what my cup of creamer resembled with a touch of coffee in it. His hair and eyes matched perfectly. It was in a short afro with sideburns coming almost to his jaw. His white shirt bore the words: Junior Police.
“Yes.” I answered. It was all I could get out—at that time.
“Good.” The young man paused and then continued his investigative routine.
“My name is Michael J. Vorner. I am a police in training and I will be beginning to ask you a few questions about your situation.”
Questions? I didn’t want be asked questions. Though something inside of me was begging to be let out. Something needed to be told.
I swiftly got up off the ground so I could at least see Michael at eye level and then tried to brush the mud off my blue jeans.
“So, what is the first thing you can remember that could have importance in this situation?” Even though, Michael didn’t look more than two years older than me, he didn’t even try to show any emotion or sympathy. All the same, it didn’t matter. I needed someone to talk to and if Michael was there at the moment, so be it. I wouldn’t regret it one bit.
I started at the beginning—the note on the refrigerator.
“When I woke up today, my mom wasn’t in her room. So, I went downstairs to the kitchen expecting her to be at the countertop making coffee instead but she wasn’t.”
Michael’s eyebrows raised in obvious interest. I continued.
“So, I looked on the fridge to see that she left a note.”
Even higher eyebrows. Michael immediately took out a pen and journal to take notes. This wasn’t my idea of telling someone how I burned my house down though every word the fell out of my mouth was like a pebble rolling off of my chest.
“It said that she would be back before I knew it. Nothing else.”
“So what did you do then?” Michael obviously watched too many crime shows and his curiosity was getting the best of him. Getting the best of me. The rolling pebbles turned into stampeding boulders.
“I started to make breakfast for myself.” Tick.
“I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs.” Tock.
“I got 2 of them.” Tick.
“I pulled a skillet from out of the drawers and put it on…” I paused. I was about to say my weapon of destruction.
“the stove.” Tock.
Boom.
Tears started to flood down by the thousands. My knees gave way and sent me back to the muddy ground. My chapped hands covered up my face.
Michael stood there embarrassingly.
I was done with the mess. I really was. Everything question—every answer let off a destructive time bomb in my heart. Though deep down inside of me, I have to admit, it felt like the time bomb went off for a reason. For a purpose. That someone—something—wanted these memories to come back to me. It was my destiny.
all criticism welcome.
