Chapter 1: The Beginning
It all began the day before my father's death. I remember our last conversation as clear as day. I admitted to him my lack of confidence in my desired profession. I told him I want to become a writer but that I lack the ability to be truly creative. I lack the ability to see it in my mind. I just want to be an author and create something new and admirable. When I spoke of my worries to him, of my faltering conscience, he only laughed. It made me angry, but before I could speak on it, he spoke to me.
"I know you, Gracie, and I believe you can do whatever you put your mind to." He held my hand and squeezed gently. As much as I knew he was trying to comfort me, it didn't help as much as I wanted it too. He's been telling me this my whole life.
"I don't know, dad. I think I'm in over my head. I want to live many different lives. I only get one chance at the one I have now and the only time I can really get out to the world and make friends and create things that others could never do is through words." Feeling tears come at this admission, I let go of his hand. He didn't look hurt and my irritation flared some. I have a slight temper problem sometimes. It can be an upsetting development in certain situations because nobody knows quite what to do with me. It's one of the other reasons I want to escape this world. I'm not sure I could really live with how people look at me. Disgust. Fear. Upset. The only people who ever understand me is dad, Timmy, and my mom. My dad is an old soul and very clumsy. He's always breaking stuff. Timmy is only a small child. Well, he was a small child. My mom is a very quiet person. Though when she does talk, she's a very chipper woman. I think I got my temper from my grandpa. He died about two years back, but I knew him well enough to keep my distance.
"It'll all work out. I just know it will." Dad said to me. It was a small comfort, knowing I had his support.
The next day, we ate dinner at the table together. Timmy was eating his Macaroni and cheese with his hands and sitting in his high chair. Mom hadn't realized what had happened until much later and I was locked inside my own mind, traveling around the depths and corners, still trying to distinguish and organize everything in there.
At first I thought the clump sound I heard was Timmy throwing his bowl again, so I paid no mind. I wish I could go back to my 13 year old self and tell myself to pay attention. Maybe it wouldn't have ended that way.
It's been fifteen years since that moment. I remember that distinct sound, that CLUMP! that ended all the normalcy of my life. It was a heart attack, we were told. I don't ever remember heart attacks ever causing someone to be in a coma for six years. Mom eventually gave up and signed the paperwork to pull the plug. He's gone now. They told us after his first examination that if we had gotten him to the hospital even a few moments before, he would have had a better chance at survival. It was all my fault then. Mom was hysterical and her first instinct was to run to him and hold his spasming body. How I couldn't even notice him right in front of me, having a seizure of some sort, I have no idea. I guess I was just too absorbed and too busy being selfish.
I'm twenty eight now. I finished a four year college on literature, journalism, and the fine arts. I figured learning about creative things would give me some real creative ideas. After graduating, it was difficult to find a decent working job. I found a company called "If Life Was a Book" and applied there. The company was created specifically for aspiring authors. They allow me to write my stories there and have them edited and published. The more popularity, the more money goes into the company. It's only a new place, but I'm sure it will be prosperous. It's almost always half full in the main writing room. I find the typing on the keyboards to be pleasing.
I remember Timothy's reaction when I told him I finally found the perfect place to live out my dream profession. He was playing video games in his room and there was a girl in there. I honestly think he could do much better than that. The girl looked like a slutty hippie, with those really high Mexican style heels, the short, tight, shiny shirt and the lumpy skirt with soft looking fabric. She had her hair up messily and I realized what had occurred after a moment of thinking. There was even a used condom on the floor.
When I told Timmy of my accomplishment, he barely said anything to me. I'm sure he heard me because he nodded in my direction. I learned later that the girl's name is Lizabeth, but most people just call her Beth.
Mom's reaction was none too similar. Ever since dad was first induced into his coma, mom killed off her twenty two years of sobriety. She was always drunk. This time, when I came to her with the news, she just laughed at me.
"Oh Grrracie, Gracc—," She laughed an amused laugh and stumbled forward a bit. "Do you really think he's cheering you on right now? No, he's not. He's wondering right this second as he watches his daughter just why he helped birth you. He wonders why you try SO hard to accomplish something you'll never be able to have. He would be ashamed to find you still groveling to everyone around you. He would be ashamed to know that you aren't even doing this for his family. Wouldn't it be sad if he knew why you're really doing this? How do you think he would feel if he knew you only work at that dumb company because you're still in denial that he's gone." She let out a snarky laugh. I've gotten used to this type of behavior from her. It's become almost normal.
Before I know what's happening, I'm in her face, blood boiling and face scrunched up. I always find it strange that even when I am used to the same stuff over and over again, I still end up reacting before my body can process my mind's thoughts.
I huffed into her face. "And I bet he's turning over in his grave watching you be such a wonderful mother." Sarcasm so strong it could break through titanium leaks out dreadfully. The words are cruel, I know, but I couldn't keep them in. Her eyes fill up to the brim with salt water. She slaps me, something I didn't see coming until I felt the burn on my face. She's seething. She's said all these things to me and when I get mad, she rages. I'm not even sure what she was expecting. I let out a dark, humorless laugh and walk out the room.
I don't allow myself to cry as I leave that house. I needed to go back to my book.
I've been working at the company for three years now. I've written a few books since then. Only two, but I never thought writing would be so time consuming. I wrote a book about a girl gaining special powers from her father who happened to be the King. She didn't know that until the end though. The other book was about a girl who is constantly being chased by her own nightmares and one day the Nightbringer welcomes himself into the dreams and turns them into reality. It was almost a reflection of my life. That was probably why it was such a successful book. "The Nightbringer," I called it. It was only so successful because it was very detailed and reflected my emotions. I had to add the story of my life in the acknowledgements if only to help people understand me better.
That moment three years ago was the moment I realized I couldn't stay in that house anymore, so I left without saying a word. It wasn't worth staying anyway. I got an apartment on one of the quieter parts of town. The city shuffled everywhere all the time, always moving. Maybe that's what kept the city alive. It doesn't matter though because I'm used to it by now.
I walk through the door of my home after a long day of tapping keys. I made it to about two hundred thousand letters today and my fingers ached. It was definitely more than I usually write. Even sticking the keys through the doorknob was difficult. My hands shook and it took a whole six and a half minutes to finally get the door open. My neighbor lended a hand after hearing me struggling with it and then walked back inside his apartment. Inside was cold. The cold air had been turned on this morning. I woke up sweating because of the heat and turned it on this morning. If seems as though I forgot to turn it back off again. It feels like a blizzard rolled in unannounced.
I'm so stupid, I think to myself. Why am I such an idiot? And so forgetful? You'd think I'd have learned by now. Mistakes being made seems to be a habit I've had recently. I just can't help it. I've been trying to quit, but nothing seems to work. I sigh as I set down the keys. I'm so tired I could sleep for ages. It's a Thursday though, so I can't expect anything nice tomorrow except more writing early in the morning. I get paid tomorrow. I'm ready to hurry up and get these damn bills paid for and done with. Great. Just great. I've begun cursing in my own head. A humorless laugh escapes me. I seem to be having a good bit of those recently. What the hell am I supposed to do?
I jump as I stand there. I hear a vibrating sound along with some sort of alarm and my heart skitters and jumps. Then I realize the buzzing and alarm sounds are coming from my phone.
Once again, I feel a wave of self-totally-not-appreciation. "Yunoka" the ringer said. Yuno is my best friend if not my only friend. She's Japanese but definitely knows her English. She's taught me the basic of Japanese and I tend to educate her on Spanish sometimes which I took in high school.
I press the green call button and bring the phone to my ear. As I do that, I begin removing my shoes. "Hello?" My voice is tired and I hope she doesn't notice.
No such luck.
"Oh my goodnessers, Gracie, are you alright? You sound like someone just karate chopped you in the throat and then stole your voice, chopped that, too and gave it back in an unsuccessful surgery." I let out a rough laugh, and my throat was sore. Yuno can always make me laugh.
"Oddly specific." I mutter after my laugh.
"For good reason, girl, trust me. Anyway, I was calling to see if you could edit my article for the newspaper."
"You're still working on that thing? Don't you know that nobody reads those except old people?"
"Hey, one day we will be those old people reading these papers. Be respectful to your elders, Gracie because one day those elders could be you." I laugh again.
"Yes, ma'am." I joke. All of a sudden Yuno's voice is serious.
"Gracie, on a more serious note, how have you been feeling? I know your mother isn't doing too well and Timmy is still being a man hoe and failing at life, so I want to know if you've been alright. You haven't been pushing yourself too hard, have you?" I don't have to think of my answer too long.
"Have no fear, Yuno, everything is fine. As for my mom and Timmy, they've made their choices. I'm just caught up in work and deadlines right now although I definitely passed it today."
Yuno's voice is sincere: "I know, honey. Maybe you should take a leave of absence for a little while. You know, kind of relax. Take a deep breath and think about things. I know how you can be sometimes. It can't possibly be healthy." Now I just really want to end the call. I hate talking about serious stuff. It bothers me on a very severe emotional level.
I have always told Yuno that my home life isn't something I like to talk about so hearing her talking about it to me like it's some normal thing we do all the time is annoying.
"Yuno." I reply sternly. "Good night. I need sleep. It's the only relaxing I'm going to get anytime soon."
I swiftly end the call and take a shower. The water on my back is more relaxing than any lousy breaks. My work is what keeps me sane and alive. Yuno doesn't understand me at all. I'm still going to try to fit in editing her article into my schedule, but I'm still not happy about her intrusion on my personal life.
I hurry out of the shower and into my bed. It's definitely not the most comfortable thing in the world, but's it's better than home. No, I tell myself. This is my home.
But in my mind, a distant saying circles my brain and hounds my thoughts.
"Home is where the heart is."
I wish that were true.
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