Windsong

My heart slowed once I'd returned to the beach. The ocean waves calmed my nerves and already, I was thinking clearly and everything made sense to me. Boys were nothing, a distraction in my controlled world that could have no significance. They would leave me once they'd get the chance, just like she had done.

My god, I couldn't let myself think about that. Just the thought of her could reduce me to tears and so much else in just a few short moments. I had school the next day and there was no way that people could see me in that light. I could take this, I had so far. I was strong enough; I had been, even when she'd been here.

Even when she'd been the monster in both reality and nightmares.

It had been one summer, one mistake, one boy who was only a boy, and it was an accident. Everyone made mistakes. I had gotten carried away, lost in the moment, and it had happened. I couldn't slip up again. I sniffled, losing control and breaking down, my tears drifting down my cheeks, falling off my face and into the soft sand. I wiped them away; the comfort of the beach was only stabbing me in the back. Reminding me of the peace that I couldn't have in day-to-day life; the peace just wafting around in front of me, teasing me like a treat that could only be seen.

I decided that I’d had enough of this for today, the beach not helping me in the way that it should've. I walked the roads to my small excuse for a house, the spring air making its way through my system, comforting me like my home probably should have. But I knew all that was waiting for me inside was an angry alcoholic waiting for a midnight snack. Not a comfortable bed or a happy wall of family portraits, just reality.

I tiptoed onto the deck, hoping my father had passed out on the couch, so I could study for a bit and sleep, with beautiful dreams, hopefully. But to my disappointment, he was sitting in the kitchen, a glass of Vodka in his grubby hands, a sandwich on his plate. When the door cracked open, he turned around and for a minute, and gave me a surprised look.

"Clara? Is that you?" He was really wasted, thinking I was my mother. I rushed to his aid, muttering that, no; I was Angel, his daughter. He answered with a sound that I couldn't identify, settling into a dirty couch that desperately needed to be cleaned. I turned off the t.v, reporting news that nobody gave a shit about.

I was exhausted, but I loitered for a few minutes, looking at my dad's face, red from alcohol, tired lines on a once-handsome face. I vaguely remembered how things used to be, when I was young and innocent and nothing had gone wrong. I tortured myself with memories for a few minutes, and then came to my senses, heading to my bedroom, a beautiful blue that my mom and I had painted once, in a happier time. I didn't bother with studying, heading to my bed and rushing into the covers, thinking that maybe tonight my dream catchers would be successful and the nightmares wouldn't greet me with horrifying smiles.

I was wrong.