Flea Bite

I'm tired, bones popping as I carry myself wearily from my bed and to the bathroom. My hair is a mess and my eyes have deep bags set around them. My one wish is to climb back into bed and sleep for another hour or two, to get rid of the exhaustion that has curled inside of me and taken over my brain.

"Mom?" My voice cracks as I yell, padding through the house to the living room where I find her drinking coffee, news turned on with the volume turned down low to not bother Dad. She looks at me with a sleepy smile.

My stomach feels tight. "Can I go out for a few hours? With Elizabeth?" The clock reads nine o'clock, and I find myself wondering if she'll believe that Elizabeth is awake at this hour on the weekend. She stands up slowly, walking towards the kitchen.

"What will you guys be doing? And when will you be home?" She sets down the coffee cup, going to the sink to rinse off her hands. She looks at me, waiting.

I bite my inner cheek. "We'll probably just hang around the mall, I don't really know. And I don't know when I'll be home -- what's a good time for you?" I swallow hard, desperate for her to agree to allow me to leave the house, to get out of these suffocating walls and the never ending silence.

"That's fine," she muses. "I want you home around eight, okay? No later than nine-thirty. There's been too much happening lately." I smile, giddiness building up inside me.

"Thank you," I say quickly, smiling widely. I go to my room, changing quickly in holey jeans and an over sized sweater, pulling my hair into a messy bun and leaving, grabbing only enough money for a bus ride to down town.

The weather is dreary and sad, the sky a hollow looking gray. Down town is equally dreadful looking, the people seemingly gray and overcome with wicked boredom and no other meaning than simply passing by.

My heart twists with anxiety as I draw closer to my destination, the rundown buildings and deserted shops morphing into middle class apartments and small shops. I find the distantly familiar neighborhood and walk into it, stomaching twisting and turning frantically. I fidget with the loose strand on my sweater, drawing closer to the brick apartment building, the old swing set beside it looking as rickety as it did when I was here two years ago.

I'm overcome with endless questions -- what if he doesn't live here anymore? What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he forgot who I was? What if he hates me for losing contact? What if, what if, what if?

I'm paralyzed with something crossed between excitement and anxiety. I pull open the door of the apartment building, a gust of warm air hitting me. Taking in a deep breath, I make my way up the stairs, fingers turning ghostly white as I get closer to room 34B.

I stand in front of the door, a clump forming in the back of my throat. I raise my fist to knock, but quickly stop. What if he hates me? What if he doesn't want to talk to me? What if he doesn't live here?

I knock twice quickly, stepping back slightly. My heart is racing and my face flushes red, my body overwhelmed with emotions. I want to retreat, I want to go back home and acted like I never came, but before I'm able to retreat to sanctuary the door swings open. My eyes widen in shock, much like the individual's who stands in front of me.

"Rowan?" He sounds bewildered and looks as if he's seen a ghost. I suppose after two years I have become a ghost, though.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "H-hey, Mikey."