Status: Finished.
Amazing, Because It Is.
Why Does It Always Rain On Me?
The good die first - William Wordsworth.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, biting my tongue to keep at bay harsher, more deeply wounding words, my dirty sneakers slipping out of my unwary grasp to collide with the wood flooring, the two meeting with a resounding thud.
My mother's bowed head snapped up immediately, in a startled sort of way, her nutmeg brown eyes - that were not entirely unlike my own in hue – frighteningly dull and completely void of any traces or hints of the sparkle they had always been adorned with, back when we knew each other.
"Packing," she replied simply, continuing to feed the stiff brown cardboard box items of Jeremy's folded clothing, which I could smell now, the thick, heady scent of his cologne, of a natural smell that belonged to him exclusively.
I felt a sharp pang of pity stab through the center of my chest, and I wondered, harsh as it might’ve been, if that's how people reacted when they saw me. I supposed not. I tried so hard to stay put together; I didn't look as haggard as my mother did, or so I hoped. She was a ghost of her former self. It was varyingly morbid, really.
Her hair that was once a rich dark brown, smooth, thick and shiny, was now pulled up into a messy bun that was falling apart in small wisps and pieces, much like everything else about her appearance; her life. The dark purple shadows underneath her eyes let on as to how much sleep she'd really lost. And lost sleep…it wasn’t something you could put up flyers for and find. You could never truly catch up.
"Why? You can't just pack him away!" I took immediately a stance of defense, dark eyes flashing, fists clenching until knuckles bleached corpse white, and I battled with myself, struggling not to allow myself to simply dash over the threshold of my brother’s former room, to try to protect his former belongings.
"Why would you say such a horrible thing?" She breathed; aghast, paralyzed mid-motion, her dulled eyes widened as equal amounts of shock and horror poured in – the most emotion I’d seen her express in days.
"Because you're obviously trying to get rid of him! I won't let you!" I shouted louder than was necessary, crashing heavily to my knees by her side, ignoring the sharp, painful, crunching impact as they collided with the wood floor, and plunging my hands blindly into the cursed box, fumbling for something to remove from it.
"Stop, just stop, Brooklyn!" She shouted desperately at me, almost too shocked to respond, latching onto my shoulders with insistent and forcing me to face her; to look into her eyes. "I'm not trying to get rid of him! We're moving!" She announced abruptly; loudly, prying my fingers free of the gray hooded sweatshirt I clutched to my chest, shoving it back into the box – crumpled lewdly.
"We-we're what?" I went completely still, my heart stuttering sharply on its next beat, tripping and pitching into the depths of my stomach.
How could we possibly just pick up and move? How could we forsake all the memories that fabricated my childhood; just leave them behind? Did the people we’d grown to know; love like family mean nothing to us now? What about my school? What about their jobs?
I was quick on the uptake, and it hit me harder than a speeding semi-truck.
We were leaving because of the memories.
Because they all contained Jeremy.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, biting my tongue to keep at bay harsher, more deeply wounding words, my dirty sneakers slipping out of my unwary grasp to collide with the wood flooring, the two meeting with a resounding thud.
My mother's bowed head snapped up immediately, in a startled sort of way, her nutmeg brown eyes - that were not entirely unlike my own in hue – frighteningly dull and completely void of any traces or hints of the sparkle they had always been adorned with, back when we knew each other.
"Packing," she replied simply, continuing to feed the stiff brown cardboard box items of Jeremy's folded clothing, which I could smell now, the thick, heady scent of his cologne, of a natural smell that belonged to him exclusively.
I felt a sharp pang of pity stab through the center of my chest, and I wondered, harsh as it might’ve been, if that's how people reacted when they saw me. I supposed not. I tried so hard to stay put together; I didn't look as haggard as my mother did, or so I hoped. She was a ghost of her former self. It was varyingly morbid, really.
Her hair that was once a rich dark brown, smooth, thick and shiny, was now pulled up into a messy bun that was falling apart in small wisps and pieces, much like everything else about her appearance; her life. The dark purple shadows underneath her eyes let on as to how much sleep she'd really lost. And lost sleep…it wasn’t something you could put up flyers for and find. You could never truly catch up.
"Why? You can't just pack him away!" I took immediately a stance of defense, dark eyes flashing, fists clenching until knuckles bleached corpse white, and I battled with myself, struggling not to allow myself to simply dash over the threshold of my brother’s former room, to try to protect his former belongings.
"Why would you say such a horrible thing?" She breathed; aghast, paralyzed mid-motion, her dulled eyes widened as equal amounts of shock and horror poured in – the most emotion I’d seen her express in days.
"Because you're obviously trying to get rid of him! I won't let you!" I shouted louder than was necessary, crashing heavily to my knees by her side, ignoring the sharp, painful, crunching impact as they collided with the wood floor, and plunging my hands blindly into the cursed box, fumbling for something to remove from it.
"Stop, just stop, Brooklyn!" She shouted desperately at me, almost too shocked to respond, latching onto my shoulders with insistent and forcing me to face her; to look into her eyes. "I'm not trying to get rid of him! We're moving!" She announced abruptly; loudly, prying my fingers free of the gray hooded sweatshirt I clutched to my chest, shoving it back into the box – crumpled lewdly.
"We-we're what?" I went completely still, my heart stuttering sharply on its next beat, tripping and pitching into the depths of my stomach.
How could we possibly just pick up and move? How could we forsake all the memories that fabricated my childhood; just leave them behind? Did the people we’d grown to know; love like family mean nothing to us now? What about my school? What about their jobs?
I was quick on the uptake, and it hit me harder than a speeding semi-truck.
We were leaving because of the memories.
Because they all contained Jeremy.
♠ ♠ ♠
Title credit: Why Does It Always Rain On Me? - Travis.Slightly unsure about her story author seeking slightly enthusiastic reader to give an opinion :)