Behing a Painting - Ch 2

The morning is quiet, like the sea after a storm. Now are the moments I hoist my sail and explore the calm waters. Scanning the horizon for dangers, I peak outside my room. Silence of the purest and sweetest form. The early morning light dances, sashaying through the windows and twirling in the air. I throw back the heavy curtains and drink it in. Sometimes, I’m convinced the human body can live off of moments of pure beauty. The sun glances around the thin grey clouds painting the world in a silver hue. Surely these scenes are the food of life.

Then the smell hits me. It punches me in the gut and forces my hand to cover my nose. It surrounds me like hungry lions ready to pounce. I know its source, and I will do everything possible to avoid that room because I know too well that in this life there exist stenches that refuse to leave your memory. Fading things like flowers and ocean breezes are nice, but the mind will lose its grip and they fall away. But some smells hold fast, strong like iron. One such a smell is the dreadful combination of alcohol and puke. From the first time I happened across this demon at the age of five, it brought tears to my eyes. I wish I could say twelve years of encountering this stench has strengthened my resistance to it. But I can’t.

I quickly retreat down the stairs ignoring reality. It’s Sunday and she won’t be waking up for at least a couple more hours. Here is my chance for escape. These precious few moments of perfect solitude. My feet naturally carry me to the kitchen where I grab my usual bowl of Cheerios, no milk. I can hear elephant snoring from the downstairs guest bedroom. It doesn’t surprise me that after the battle last night he slept down here. Honestly, I wonder how anyone could sleep in that room surrounded by that smell. Scratch that, how could anyone even breathe?

With breakfast successfully eaten, I stretch the whole day in front of me. It's blank ready to be filled with hours of checking out, dotted with those unfortunate moments when life knocks. But while the sun is rising, I get to live in my own world. And my world consists of two things: books and silence.

Before long, I’m settling down in my favorite chair in the corner of the library. I have it perfectly placed in front of the east window so the sun can read over my shoulder. Leaving time at the doorway, I can get lost here for hours. And while I’d love to boast that I’m well-read in the classics, I leave them on the shelf. Honestly, they bore me. It’s the page-turners that I can’t put down. The action, thrillers that whisk me away and leave me breathless. I get enough philosophical drowning at school. When I’m on my own time, I want to float. I see my library as any great athlete sees their trophy wall. Every book that I’ve read and enjoyed bears the honorable crease marks along the spine from hours of reading and re-reading. The vast array of colorful covers are my accomplishments, my pride and joy. I flip to my bookmarked page and willingly leave the nightmare behind to resume my dreams. Soon I'm so far gone that I forget to watch the ticking hand of time...

“Sarah!” a voice screams from above. So much for dreaming. I can hear the hangover in her voice. I look out the window and see that the sun has reached it's peak. Now it will begin it's journey down, down fading in light untill it vanishes on the other side of the world. My time is over and real life greedily takes over. I put on my smile and head upstairs to face the dragon that waits for me.

“Coming Mom!”