Well, I guess I'm finally trying to get this idea off my chest. Mind you, this is extremely rough and I don't like the beginning. However, I'm giving it my best shot. Be honest and don't be afraid to be rough. Also, I'm debating between two titles: Long Shot and Already Gone. Give me your opinion if you like one better than the other.
Happy Reading!
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ONE
He’s back.
That’s the only thought that kept running through my head as I peeked through the blinds of my bedroom window. How long had it been? Five months? Nine? I had lost count a long time ago.
But there he was, bold as brass, bent over the hood of his old-fashioned vehicle. I frowned. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be gone for good—as in never coming back, disappeared, vanished, not here.
I blinked, hoping that maybe it was a mirage, that my brain was still groggy from sleep to really comprehend what I was seeing. He stayed solid however, now lifting the hood of his car and then cursing quite loudly.
I shook my head. He hadn’t changed a bit. Still the same bitter boy that he was before.
Closing the blinds, I turned away and faced my room. This wasn’t going to change anything. It couldn’t. Why did it matter that he was back? Why did I care?
I was lying to myself. Again. It was clear by the pounding of my heart that I hadn’t forgotten that night. I focused instead on my surroundings, sitting carefully on the edge of my bed. The worn fabric scratched at my hands, the yellow comforter now a faded cream. The walls were pit-pocked with tack marks and holes from nails; I had long ago removed the posters and family photos that used to crowd the plaster room. My dresser was nicked and in desperate need of a paint job but it served its purpose of holding my clothes.
It was no longer the homey refuge I once considered it to be. Now it was just a place to sleep or hang my head. I was leaving in less than four months anyway. Why did I need to continue to fake something that wasn’t real?
“Dammit Audrey!”
My mom’s shrill voice filled the small cavity that was my room and rang in my head like thousands of little bells. I quickly buttoned my jeans before pulling on my favorite purple long-sleeve tee and scurried down the stairs while my mom’s voice reached a new high.
I skidded to a halt in the kitchen and spotted my mom, dressed in her black uniform for work, staring aghast at the empty medicine bottle in her hand. I sensed the tension building, her face growing redder and redder with each passing moment. She was close to collapsing, her knuckles white as she clutched the plastic container.
Frantic, I escaped into the nearby room and unlocked the door to our emergency stash. Thank the lord above, there was one bottle left. My mom was crying now, her sobs loud and dramatic, causing my father to storm from the house, construction boots half on. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him as I practically shoved two pills down my mom’s throat and prayed for them to go into effect immediately. I heard my dad’s car exit the neighborhood with a roar, his Ford diesel rumbling down the tiny alleyway of the town.
My mom continued to rock back and forth in the middle of the kitchen floor, clutching her knees to her chest, mumbling under her breath that the world was going to hell. I kept repeating what the psychologist told me only last week. Patience, patience. The episode will pass. Just keep patient.
But I couldn’t help it when I felt my anger rise at the sight of the dirty dishes in the sink and the mounting pile of soiled laundry. I shouldn’t be frustrated with my mom. She was doing the best that she could. Her anxiety attacks were getting better. It wasn’t her fault she ran out of pills. But wasn’t it her job to help out a bit? She hadn’t run out of pills till this morning. Couldn’t she have cleaned up a little last night?
I tried to finish as many dishes as I could before I had to leave for school, listening as my mom slowly came to her senses and stood shakily to her feet. She forced a wobbly smile and kissed me on the check, her dry lips scratching my face in a way that left me wincing.
“Thank you dear,” she mumbled before stumbling out the door and into the car. I had the sudden notion that I should prevent her from driving until the pills kicked in but the doctor said that she should be fine. Once they were in her system, she was nearly normal.
And then all was still. Except for the rhythmic beat of the water and my hands over the dishes, the small house I stood in was quiet. It was a relief, really. It was times like these when I was able to breathe clearly, to watch as the sun graced the mountain tops as the early morning mist made the world look unearthly. I didn’t have the worries of baby-sitting my mother or making sure dinner was done for my father. I was just another normal teenager finishing their chores before class.
The dishes took me longer than I thought because when I put the final dish away, the clock was closer to eight than I would have liked. One glance at the laundry room, however, and I knew I couldn’t leave just yet. Practically shoving the clothes into the machine, I poured in detergent, the smell filling the air, and clicked it on.
Locking up behind me, I raced around to the back where my car was parked in the alleyway. It stood in all its glory on the cracked pavement—an old rusted pick-up painted an ugly brown with an open bed and a broken lock on the driver’s side. I tried not to think about my family as I opened the passenger side to unlock the piece of rusted metal. I continued to tell myself that everything would work out eventually. It usually did.
Or as best as it could.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement and spun in the driver’s seat to see the neighbor boy mounting the stairs of his back porch. For just a moment, our eyes met, and it sent my body into shivers of fright.
His eyes were deadly, forcing me to look away. I clutched at the steering wheel, repeating to myself that he’s harmless. Scary, but harmless. But my eyes, of their own accord, looked back and I was able to observe him for a moment while his eyes were focused on the door.
His hair was longer than before, hanging across his forehead in jagged slashes, the black strands glinting in the early morning light. His black shirt was tight across his wide shoulders, his jeans fitted to his trim waist, cowboy boots covering his feet. He seemed to have grown, taller than what I remembered.
I still couldn’t believe that he was here. After all the rumors that I’d heard, all the crazy stories, there he stood, struggling with the lock on the door. Is he going back to school? Is he here for good or just to get his things? These thoughts and more swirled around in my head until I felt I might be dizzy. Fastening my seat belt, I turned on the truck with a loud roar, black smoke billowing from the back. It resembled the awakening of a lion but the sound soothed me despite the loud volume and I caught movement in my side mirror. I glanced in it and saw him watching me.
I ignored him and put the truck into drive. I smiled to myself, imaging how my friends would react when I told them that Dante Giovanni was back in town.
