Enjoy this next story. I really hope you folks like it…
Disclaimer: Me. Owning Big Time Rush. *sob* I wish…
"Get up! Get up! Seven twenty-three!" The tousle-haired boy snapped his eyes open at the sound of his father's voice. Seven twenty-three? What? He thought, still in a daze. He was still trying to process the information when his mother burst in. "Logan! We have been calling you for the past ten minutes! You're gonna be late for school!" She scolded as she held the doorknob with a white-knuckle grip. The door seemed to be trembling as her hand ceased to release it. The nine-year old didn't have to hear much more before he had shot out from under the blankets and grabbed the first pair of jeans he saw. Logan may have been only nine years old then, but he had the proper sense of time. By the time he had pulled on his pants and stuck a toothbrush in his mouth, his mother had hurriedly stuffed the day's homework into his Batman backpack.
Logan bounded down the stairs two at a time and literally flew into the kitchen. Phillip Mitchell, a part-time receptionist at the World Trade Center, was haphazardly flipping an egg on the stove and pouring milk into a glass at the same time.
"Dad. Dad! Let me do that," shrieked Logan as the glass nearly tipped over.
"Good morning, son. We both seem to have slept in today," chuckled Phillip as he attempted to hold a pan steady while squeezing mustard on a sandwich.
"No kidding," His son quickly folded up a PB&J and wrapped it in aluminum foil. He then picked up one of the cooked eggs and ate it in three bites, without bothering to use a fork. His dad shoveled scrambled eggs in his mouth seeming to forget about chewing. Both washed down the, if you can call it a breakfast, with a cup of whole milk. Ironically enough, Joanna just watched both her boys in amusement, a sympathetic smile on her face.
The faint noise of a roaring engine could be heard over the commotion. "Logan, the bus is here!" shouted Joanna as the yellow school bus steamed to a stop. Her son, though small, sprinted out of the kitchen, a wet spot all down the front of his green shirt.
"Logan, really, go clean that up!" she handed her son a paper towel, which was simply crammed into a pocket. Joanna frowned as Logan managed a simper. "It'll dry by the time I get to school. Besides, it was Dad, not me!"
Phillip could be seen at the kitchen sink, scrubbing in vain at a ketchup stain on his tie. He looked up to see his wife angrily glaring at him, and to that he grinned apologetically.
Joanna sighed and looked back down the street, where Logan was leaping into the bus. He stuck his head out of a window.
"Bye, Mom!" he frantically waved his arms and laughed.
"Bye, honey!" she crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked back inside.
She shook her head at the scene in front of her. Her dear husband, whom she respected and loved, was tangled in his own tie, white shirt and green tie both stained bright red with ketchup.
"What am I gonna do with you?" Phillip just looked up at her with pleading eyes.
"First thing you can do is get me out of this," he said with a smirk.
Good morning. The words said by millions of people every day, yet they pay no mind to the words they're saying. Good morning. I blink, trying to see what was so great about that one overused phrase. That morning was not a good morning. He said it was. But he didn't know what was coming. Eleven years ago, on September eleventh, He was thirty-eight. I was nine. Now, eleven years later on September eleventh, I'm twenty and he would be forty-nine. Fate has taken its hand and cruelly slapped our family across the face.
The phone rings. I make no move to pick it up. Hey, this is Logan Mitchell. Sorry I couldn't be here. Leave your name, phone number and message, and I'll get back to you soon.
Um, hi, Logan, I just wanted to call and see how you're doing…You're probably in no mood to talk to anyone but I thought I'd just…you know. Uh, believe me, I didn't even want to get out of bed today. I just felt like…crap. So…call me back soon…please? Okay, bye. Love you.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. At least I know she still cares. After that day, Mom just became…distant. She acted as if she couldn't care less about what I was doing, or how old I was, or that I even moved to LA to be one-fourth of Big Time Rush. I tried to no avail to impress her. I got straight A's, got MVP on the varsity hockey team, made her breakfast on the weekends. She became a shell of her former self. It's not what she did that caused us to grow apart; it's what she didn't do. Granted, she tried to be the best mother she could for the first couple years after, but she realized that it wasn't doing any good. She still calls every once in a while, to wish me happy birthday, Merry Christmas, that sort of thing. You can tell that she tries to unearth it from the bottom of her heart. She really does try. You can't blame her for trying.
Still curled up in bed, I snap my eyes open at the sound of a car door slamming shut. Two car doors. Three? I don't know why, but a silent tear is sliding down my cheek. Maybe I do know why.
Whoever it is doesn't bother knocking. They've either found my spare key or they have a key that I gave them. I only gave three people my key…
They are quieter than death when they come inside. I know it's them. I hope to God that it's who I think it is.
My bedroom door swings open. They see me and I can tell they've been crying. Well at least the smallest one. He's standing in the back. Every year I stay home from school, work, hockey practice, games, and I just lay in bed the whole day. They know why; I only told them when we were all ten, the first year after. The tall one with soft hazel eyes is the first to come forward. He sits next to me on my bed and brushes some stray hair out of my eyes, a pained expression on his face. He hates to see me any less than happy and we all know it.
The blonde with piercing green orbs sticks his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps toward me. I look at him with imploring eyes, and something inside him breaks. He sits next to the other boy and grabs my hand, holding it with both of his.
The small Latino with warm chocolate eyes is shaking with sobs. He can only run up to me and envelop me in a bear hug, tears staining my old blue shirt. I embrace him back, my cheeks wet with anguish. I don't care that we all look like babies. All that matters is that I'm with the ones I love.
We're all bawling now, no end to the sorrow. Although they never knew my father, they see how I speak about him and cry. Just by that they know how wonderful he was. The fact that he can no longer be with us is enough to make them cry, too. My brothers and I know that tomorrow we'll look back on this and smile, because we know that everything's going to be all right in the end.
Gosh, I am crying right now. You have no idea what it was like to write this. I'm super dee dooper proud of it. It's like, my best work.
On September eleventh, 2001, three thousand people perished in the tragedy that was 9/11. Every year I feel deep heartache for the victims and their families. Not just every year, sometimes it just drifts into my head and I feel bad the rest of the week. So take a moment, be grateful for what you have and remember those who passed because of one person's cruelty. Be grateful that Osama bin Laden cannot cause any more people any sorrow. I know I am extremely relieved that he cannot hurt any more innocents. That, and all the other criminals that have been caught. So take a moment…
If this story offended anyone, I am truly sorry. Please contact me by means of review or PM and I will rectify any problems.
Till next time, best wishes,
PEACE AND LOVE AND ELEVATE!
xoxoWonder