I breathed in slowly, and guess what. It smelled like smoke again. Anger rose in me, and my desire to restart rose again. Why couldn’t I create something positive! Why couldn’t I vanish! I opened my eyes, and looked at the room around me, trapped. 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, a combined kitchen, dining room, and living room, the circumference of the interior of my house was just under 120 steps. I wondered what would happen if I broke out? What would happen if I opened my window and snuck out in the middle of the night?
What would happen if I just walked out my front door? From there I could sprint to a car, and considering my parents were always preoccupied, I could probably escape. Then came the question of where to go. I couldn’t leave mentally, and currently that was the root of my problem. I couldn’t daydream away, the stress my parents were forcing upon me was crippling my creative mind. If I escaped I would go up the canyon, I would stay alone, and blast my brother’s songs.
And I would hurt, because he isn’t here to listen with me anymore. And now it’s working. I am sitting in the passenger seat of our small truck. The conversation is slow, my brother finding time to make comments when he isn’t focusing on switching gears, and driving the decaying truck. The windows are down, and we listen to the wind and the music blasts from speakers crammed behind the seats. Anklets and bracelets wreath my brothers left wrist, and a dozen more are wrapped around the gear shift. I grin. I am wearing a short sleeve orange shirt, and shorts. I feel the wind make me cold, but I force myself to not shiver.
My brother is wearing a white shirt, faded and worn. He is also wearing uncomfortably short shorts. His hair is long and its kept back by a trucker hat, and his skin is more tan than I can ever dream of getting. He is relaxed and comfortable.
I smell the air of the mountains, as we climb up the roads deeper in the canyon. My brother is now telling me about his friends, and what not to do when I get friends like his. I feel the joy in hearing him talk. He tells me to stop being dramatic, and to be practical.
I stammer with my question. “What are we supposed to do when the parents are wrong?” He has to know the answer, he just has to.
And then I smell smoke, with an uncomfortable jolt I am ripped from my daydreaming to wake up on the hardwood floor of my house, tears spilling from my eyes, because I was trapped
I write by Starlight 