Status: two shot.
Imaginary
part one.
When I was five, my parents fought one last time.
It’s four o’clock in the morning, and a little girl with hair as long as the sky and eyes as tired as the earth is awoken by shouting, a slamming door, and then a crash. It’s a typical night in the Penn household. The girl rolls over and huddles under her disheveled covers, into her safe spot. A pillow goes over her ear, muffling the raised voices only slightly, but enough to comfort her. She whispers a lullaby sung by her once living grandmother; soft enough to be ignored, but loud enough to be substantial. The words are repeated over and over, until the girl falls asleep, mouth shaping one last syllable before slowly, slowly falling shut.
The last thought in her little naïve head is, “This is the last time. They promised.”
The next morning, the little girl wakes up to a silent house, a rare occurrence. She tiptoes through the long wooden hallway, peeking into her parents’ room. The bed is empty, and in shambles. Sheets are thrown every which way, as if the earlier occupants had tossed and turned all night, with the restlessness that only comes after a life changing moment. There is a crumpled pillow lying near the door, as if thrown in frustration, or guilt. The air is still heavy with something that tastes bitter, something like regret. The little girl doesn't know this feeling, not yet, only knows she doesn't want to stay here anymore.
She leaves the room much faster than she entered, fleeing from the scene as if she was the culprit, not the victim. The little girl, she heads to the kitchen, hoping for some relief from crushing weight of the earlier room, for some breakfast and normality. What she gets is her father, hunched in on himself, the shadows from the one lighted lamp dancing across his face, making him look old, old, old.
She walks up to him, cautiously like you would a startled animal. True to form, he starts as soon as he notices his baby in the room. Nothing brightens in his features, not like usual. There is only an unblinking blank stare. Once he realizes this, her daddy tries out a smile, failing miserably. It ends up looking like he has forgotten how, like he is trying to hard. It turns into a grimace of sorts, contorting his features to reflect the inner war that has been occuring for hours.
The little girl, she does the only thing she can think of; she hugs her daddy just as tight as she can, trying to pull him out of his head. Her daddy holds her just as tight, like she is the one thing keeping him from drifting off into an island of isolation and anguish.
Her daddy speaks after a moment, almost hesitantly at first, "Your mother has left."
Towards the end of those four words, his voice hardens, and the little girl can tell her mommy is never coming back.
It’s four o’clock in the morning, and a little girl with hair as long as the sky and eyes as tired as the earth is awoken by shouting, a slamming door, and then a crash. It’s a typical night in the Penn household. The girl rolls over and huddles under her disheveled covers, into her safe spot. A pillow goes over her ear, muffling the raised voices only slightly, but enough to comfort her. She whispers a lullaby sung by her once living grandmother; soft enough to be ignored, but loud enough to be substantial. The words are repeated over and over, until the girl falls asleep, mouth shaping one last syllable before slowly, slowly falling shut.
The last thought in her little naïve head is, “This is the last time. They promised.”
The next morning, the little girl wakes up to a silent house, a rare occurrence. She tiptoes through the long wooden hallway, peeking into her parents’ room. The bed is empty, and in shambles. Sheets are thrown every which way, as if the earlier occupants had tossed and turned all night, with the restlessness that only comes after a life changing moment. There is a crumpled pillow lying near the door, as if thrown in frustration, or guilt. The air is still heavy with something that tastes bitter, something like regret. The little girl doesn't know this feeling, not yet, only knows she doesn't want to stay here anymore.
She leaves the room much faster than she entered, fleeing from the scene as if she was the culprit, not the victim. The little girl, she heads to the kitchen, hoping for some relief from crushing weight of the earlier room, for some breakfast and normality. What she gets is her father, hunched in on himself, the shadows from the one lighted lamp dancing across his face, making him look old, old, old.
She walks up to him, cautiously like you would a startled animal. True to form, he starts as soon as he notices his baby in the room. Nothing brightens in his features, not like usual. There is only an unblinking blank stare. Once he realizes this, her daddy tries out a smile, failing miserably. It ends up looking like he has forgotten how, like he is trying to hard. It turns into a grimace of sorts, contorting his features to reflect the inner war that has been occuring for hours.
The little girl, she does the only thing she can think of; she hugs her daddy just as tight as she can, trying to pull him out of his head. Her daddy holds her just as tight, like she is the one thing keeping him from drifting off into an island of isolation and anguish.
Her daddy speaks after a moment, almost hesitantly at first, "Your mother has left."
Towards the end of those four words, his voice hardens, and the little girl can tell her mommy is never coming back.
♠ ♠ ♠
Word count;; 506.