Skies Do Fall

I cried, and I wasn’t afraid to admit it.

I drove home to my room, buried myself underneath my sanctuary of pillows and comforters, and then sulked until every bit of my energy had forced the last, lingering tear from my eyes before I finally passed out.

It wasn’t like you thought it was. My father had been with a woman when I spotted him from that repair shop, but this time with the right woman.

My mother.

They were ogling at each other like they always did out in public or in privacy, boring into each other’s eyes with that empathy, that sickening love. It should have made one’s offspring feel merry at the sight of how in love their parents were, and how unbreakable their bond was, but it was quite the polar opposite in my case.

I was miserable with this dejection, sorrow at knowing what was really planned in the blueprints of my dad’s mind.

He was acting as though my mother was the gravity to his earth, while he was thinking about plotting up a new ‘business meeting’. His eyes were swimming in affection when he peered upon my mother’s beautiful face, while his palms were sweaty with anticipation of booking the next hotel room to ‘watch the big game’.

He didn’t deserve that kind of endearment, especially from someone as deserving as my mother was. She would never, in a million years, jeopardize our family’s happiness in such a careless matter. She was sometimes overly-faithful to my dad, and she held the highest regard for me and Tristan. My mother was the sweetest woman alive, and she would take her life repeatedly before she would hurt her family.

I took these new ideas in as I tossed in my tormenting dreams. I dreamed of that night, replaying every scene in horror like I had done numerous times before….

Tristan was shaking me awake before the specters could end completely, and I found myself in a cold, moist sweat when I had finally forced my eyes open. My throat throbbed with pain, something that caught me off guard, and Tristan must have read it in my face.

“You were screaming,” Tristan explained almost silently. “You were screaming in your sleep.”

Beating away the embarrassment, I used the heel of my palm to wipe my eyes in a restless manner and croaked, “I’m sorry about that, Tris. I…I must have been having a…nightmare.”

Tristan, although he knew perfectly well it was no nightmare, nodded with acceptance and rubbed my back in comfort. “That’s okay, Robs. It happens.”

I smiled gratefully at him, and he returned it with a minuscule smile.

Before the awkwardness could sink in, Tristan removed his hand from his comfort remedy and switched the gears in topics. Leaping up from my bedside, he grinned. “Now get up! Mom made dinner.”

I groaned, but made an effort to kick back the covers and slip my legs sideways. Tristan beamed down at me, happy that I was finally going to leave my isolated room, and tugged me along to the kitchen.

My mom was on the phone, chattering away excitingly to who I assumed to be my aunt Freda, while dumping equal amounts of steaming soup into the contents of our China-dish bowls. My eyes idled on her tiny frame, so energetic, so elated, until they finally pried themselves away to stare down at the dinner table already set up.

Acting more confused than I really was, I questioned, “Why is there only three places set up?”

Tristan, already wide-eyed with hunger, was raping his dinner with his penetrating blue-eyed stare as he answered, “Dad’s not eating.”

Even though the answer to my next question was already known, I asked it anyway, “Oh? Is he not hungry?”

“No,” Tristan peered up briefly at me, his next four words making my heart burst open from the bandages I had tried to mend it with over the last month, “He’s at a meeting.”

I wish I had never asked.

X…..X

I had spent my night mutely crying, knowing deep down where my father was during the time my mother and brother spent sound asleep in their beds, secure and content with my father’s omnipresence. I lay awake, the tears slipping like forgotten ripples, until his headlights flashed briefly across my window. I listened as his muffled footsteps began to creep up each of the rickety stairs. I held my breath as he passed my room until the echoes of his bedroom door closing had faded.

My mind was in too much chaos to sleep that night, so I just laid there until there were beams of light shining through my room, and the twittering of birds could be heard from right outside my involuntarily open window. After I heard three individual closings of the front door, I knew that I was alone in my household once again.

I stretched my stiff limbs; the pulsating knots of newly-formed cramps causing a wince to appear on my face, another result from my restless night of contemplation. I stumbled out of my bed, and once I mastered standing upright, I waddled to my bathroom.

Ignoring the reflection my presence caused to appear on the mirror, I twisted the shower on and stripped before diving behind the waterproof curtains. After my rinse and wash routine under the scorching water’s streams, I got out feeling prepared to take on another 24 hour day on my feet.

After lazily pinning my hair back up in a messy ponytail and dressing in casual sweats and a t-shirt with a logo only I found funny, I decided to eat some breakfast.

As I headed to the kitchen, it hit me that the rather disagreeable greased-up boy was supposed to stop by today to fix my window. Shrugging, I decided he would come when he came, and he could deal if he didn’t like my all-too casual appearance.

Just when I had begun to boil some water for my Quaker oatmeal, the doorbell rang about 4,873,872,897,548,574,857.0001 times. The rings repetition was obviously either done to speed me to the door in a more hurried manner or to frustrate me, in which either case resulted in their favor.

I lurched the door open with chagrin flowing through my very veins. Closing my eyes in frustration, I pinched the edge of my nose and sighed. “Dude, I told you to come and fix my window, not to try to pop my eardrums to the point that--“

“You want me to fix your window?” a semi-familiar voice questioned, but definitely not the same voice I was expecting.

Daring to peek open one eye, I groaned at the boy standing before me.

I guess we are back to Asshole Number 1 again.