Breaking Barriers

June 2, 1994

I awoke to the sun bearing down on my face through the slats of the blinds covering the window on the far side of my bedroom, pealing my eyes open long before my alarm clock ever went off. Feeling way to hot, sweaty, and sticky to stay curled up under the navy blue sheets with the intention of going back to sleep, I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. Trudging slowly over to the adjoining bathroom, I stripped down and turned on the cold water. Reveling in the shock to my senses, I stayed under the spray for as long as I could manage, running my hands through my shaggy, pale blonde hair to keep it out of my face.

Mom had been hounding me since Christmas to get it cut, but I really just couldn't be bothered; besides, I kind of liked it at the length it was. I'd get it cut once summer was over. Maybe.

Climbing out of the shower, I dried off quickly and set about trying to find clothes. Yanking a pair of jeans off an already bent hanger from my closet, I pulled them on and then plucked a shirt from the floor where several were scattered about. Sniffing it warily to make sure it didn't smell -because if it did, my sister would be the first to tell me- I tossed it back to the floor. Grabbing a light blue one from near the foot of my bed, it went through the same test, and upon deciding that it was fine, I pulled it over my head, damp hair falling into my eyes as I did so. Rather than brushing it back, I just left it like that.

I didn't feel like dealing with it today. It was way too hot, really, for today to be anything but a lazy day. One that would be spent reading Rolling Stone magazine with a big glass of lemonade while stretched out on the couch.

Checking the time with a quick glance at the clock on the stand next to my bed, I realized that I still had plenty of time to catch the mailman just as he brought the day's mail. That was the whole reason I'd set my alarm in the first place, the whole reason I'd made it a point to get up early.

If I didn't get to the mail first, Emaleena -my little sister- would. And if that happened the day would be spent arguing with her, rather than lounging on the couch.

Ema could wait to read the magazine; I payed for the subscription, anyway. It was my magazine. By all reasoning, she should still be digging through the massive stack of Rolling Stone magazines I'd already given her; there'd been at least thirty there, some of which were ones that Dad had given me. It was the whole of my collection that I'd let her borrow after she'd taken such an interest in my reading them sometime last year. Up until then, when she'd first come to live with us, after the adoption paper work went through, she'd barely had anything to do with me -not that I blamed her, given the traumatic experience she'd been through- and so when she'd asked about the magazines, I'd jumped at the opportunity to enlighten her on my passion for music.

But she'd taken to them with a fervour. How she'd read through them all so fast was still a mystery to me; it should've taken her -what?- a couple of months, at least, but she'd cleared through them within a couple of weeks. She'd get up in the morning, come down stairs with some magazines in hand, sit down at the kitchen table, and that was where she'd be until the sun went down.

It was impressive, I had to admit; once she was done with those magazines, I'd moved on to teaching her about the music that I loved so dearly, even playing some of my favorite songs on my guitar for her. Emaleena was like me, I'd noticed quickly; she had an ear for music, a gift of absorbing every single note and chord I'd taught her. Ema had taken a liking to a wide range of music as well.

In the rare event that she road with me somewhere in my car, she'd taken to acting as my passenger side disc jockey, playing everything from Van Halen -one of my particular favorites- to Metallica, to Black Sabbath, to her choice favorites of Alice In Chains, Soundgarden, and of course, Nirvana. Something about getting to mess with cassettes and CDs while riding in a vehicle was apparently a good way of distracting Ema from her nerves and blazing hatred for cars.

Dressed for the day, I made my way out into the hallway. The house was still and quiet, more so than it usually was, even at this hour, and I crept towards the steps, afraid to do anything that may wake Ema, even if she usually slept like the dead. The steps, despite being carpeted, creaked and groaned and I couldn't help but cringe with each step I took. Once on the ground floor, I lot out a sigh of relief, trekking towards the kitchen in search of something to eat. Just as I was about to open the fridge, I paused, taking notice of a note and money that pinned to the cork bored hanging on the front.

Opening the door, I absentmindedly pulled out milk and eggs to make French toast, sitting them on the counter before taking a moment to read the neat cursive script of mom's handwriting.

Olli and Emaleena,

Your father and I will be back around 5:30. We'll bring dinner home, so don't worry about that. Olli, you're in charge. Be nice to each other and stay out of trouble.

Love, Mom and Dad

I smiled at the little heart that mom had put next to where she'd signed it, and then laughed seeing dad's scrawling penmanship beneath it, a sharp contrast.

P.S. The money is for you to buy lunch, if you want to. Just be careful if you go out. Love you both,

Dad

So, that's why the house is so quiet.

Still grinning, I pulled my wallet from my pocket, tucking the cash inside, before shoving it back in my pocket. I'd have to ask Emaleena once she woke up what she wanted for lunch, because she'd undoubtedly be hungry. If I woke her up this early just to let her know that I'd made breakfast, she'd probably throw something at me.

Again.

Sliding over to the sink, I washed my hands quickly, before setting about making breakfast. Cracking eggs into a bowl, I threw in some cinnamon, sugar, and milk into the mix. Turning the burner on to heat up the skillet that was already sitting there, I dunked two slices of bread into the mix before dropping them into the pan. As they began to sizzle, I quietly hummed along to a melody that I had stuck in my head, simply enjoying the quiet. I hadn't had much of a chance to do so, since Emaleena came along around three years ago. That was fine with me -I loved having a younger sibling- but it was still nice to have a calm moment to myself once in a while.

It was easier to think when the world around me was quiet, easier to be introspective and contempla-

I was pulled from my reverie, hearing a noise behind me. Pausing in the middle of flipping my french toast, I strained my ears to hear something over the sound of the skillet.

There was nothing. Must be hearing things.

Laying the pancake turner on the counter top, I glanced over to check the time. The mailman would run in a half an hour and I could go get my magazine, and be stretched out on the couch by the time Ema woke up. For being almost twelve, the kid was one hell of a sound sleeper.

Shit, I thought to myself. Her birthday is in a few days. I'll have to come up with a good idea for a gift. I wonder if she'd like to have a guitar of her-

There it was, again, that noise that I thought I'd imagined a couple of minutes ago. This time, I had definitely heard something, and it sounded like the front door closing.

Moving over to the sink. I peaked out the window through the blinds, expecting to see mom and dad's car in the driveway, but instead, my eyes took notice of a flickering, orange light.

It took my brain a moment to process what I was looking at, and then the sound of steps creaking met my ears.

The mailman's car has an orange safety light on it. The mailman's car has an orange light.

"EMALEENA!" I bellowed before I could stop myself, darting out of the kitchen as the groaning of the steps turned into a thunderous racket. Coming around the corner, I spotted my little sister by the long mess of dark hair as she thudded up the stairs. I ran after her, and with the advantage of having longer legs, took them two at a time. I was almost close enough to grab a hold of her when she turned and took off down the hallway.

Rolling Stone magazine in hand.

"Ema! Give me my magazine, damn it!"

She glanced back at me, hearing me yell, and with a squeal upon seeing how close I was to catching her, she somehow seemed to start running even faster but I was just about to catch her. Just close the distance a little more-

At the last second, she ducked into the bathroom. Skidding to a stop, I nearly fell as my momentum pushed me foward.

I was seeing red.

That magazine was mine! Why in the fuck had the mailman run early, and how did Emaleena know that he would? Had I speculated the time wrong?

The taunting laughter from the other side of the door didn't stop as I slammed my fist into the door, banging on it repeatedly.

"Open the door, Ema! Give me my magazine!"

"No!" She hollered back.

I tried the handle. Obviously, it was locked. Of course she'd managed to lock it in the split second it had taken for me to get to the door.

I kicked the door, this time. I had to get it open. Had to get my magazine. That Rolling Stone was mine. No way in hell she was gonna get to read it first.

I kept pounding on the door, using my hands, my feet. I could hear the latch on the otherside rattling as it tried to give way to my force.

"Quit banging on the door, you ass! I'm trying to read!"

That did it. I had to get the damn door open. Rearing back, I raised my foot and delivered a swift kick to the door.

It still didn't budge.

I tried it again.

"Open-" I stepped back, poised to throw as much force behind this kick as I could, "the fucking doo-"

The whole world seemed to go suddenly, nerve wrackingly silent, aside from the sharp sound of splitting wood, and I watched in horror as a massive crack crawled right up the center of the door.

Oh, shit.

Approaching the door slowly, distantly afraid that if I touched it, it would crack more, I called out to my sister.

"Leena?" I cringed as I heard her take hold of the handle, twisting it slowly. When she pulled back to open the door, only half of it came back, and I quickly reached forward to grab her arm and pull her out of the way as the wood split even more, cracking in two completely, nearly landing on her as it fell.

"Careful," I chimed, as we stepped out into the hallway to properly assess the damage.

Grey eyes flickered between me and the door.

"What did you do?"

"I kicked the door. And it did... that," I explained, gesturing to the giant crack with my hand. I must've hit it just right for that to have happened.

"You are so screwed, Olli," she replied, her solemn expression breaking into a wide grin.

"I'm screwed? This is your fault!" I bellowed running a hand through my hair to shove it back from where it had fallen into my face during my assault on the door.

"I'm not the one who broke the door in half!" She quipped back, swatting at my arm with the magazine. It was of little concern to me, now.

"But you instigated it!"

"It's not my fault your plan didn't work out," she laughed. "You should know by now that the mailman runs an hour early on Saturdays."

Actually, I hadn't known that. I'd been planning this all week, and she had bested me simply by knowing one detail I hadn't.

Clever girl.

"Doesn't matter. You're just as guilty in this as I am. Mom and dad are already annoyed at us fighting over these magazines; they're gonna chew both our asses, and you know it."

Ema crossed her arms -keeping the magazine close in case I tried to take it from her- an annoyed, thoughtful look passing over her features. She knew I was right.

"So," she started, "what are we going to do? Duct tape the damn thing back together? Like they're not gonna notice that." I tried to bite back my laugh at Ema's sarcasm, but it came out anyway, and she smirked.

"We have a while until they'll be home. Why don't we go to the hardware store and see how much a new door would cost?"

Ema's face paled at the suggestion of traveling in a vehical, but she put on a brave facade. It wasn't that she thought I was bad at driving, or didn't trust me; she just really hated cars. I'd wondered more than a few times if she'd ever overcome that fear, but then, I figured that losing your parents and being badly injured in a car wreck would stick with you.

"As long as we get some food," she replied. "Because I'm starving."

At her mention of food, I realized that I'd left my french toast cooking on the stove.

"Shit!" I cursed, dashing down the hallway towards the stairs. Ema followed after me, laughing, taunting.

"Forget something, did you?"

"Shut up," I snapped back, trying not to fall and break my neck as I rushed down stairs. The acrid smell of burning food filled my nose from here. Yanking the pan from the burner, I turned it off, waving smoke away from my face.

Sure enough, my french toast was burned beyond saving.

Buying lunch it is, then, I decided, using the spatula to scrape the charred bread into the trashcan. Emaleena came shuffing into the kitchen with an amused grin on her face, making her way to the window. Pulling on the lever, it popped open, and a warm breeze came through.

Hopefully that would be enough to air the kitchen out.

"To the hardware store, then," Ema questioned as we made our way to the front door.

"Yes," I replied, pulling on my shoes before grabbing my keys and sunglasses from where they hung on the wall. Sliding my sunglasses on, I pulled open the door, and we made our way outside into the heat.

Yes, a trip to the hardware store was definitely our first priority.