Yet another deafening boom. Yet another blinding flash. Yet another night without your mother. One might ask, "Well, where is this aforementioned mother?" She's probably touring some fancy country like France or Italy again. Some fancy country that's not within a thousand miles of you, that is. Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you are in the middle of one of the worst storm rural New York has ever seen.
A quick glance at your digital alarm clock tells you that it is currently 3:17 in the morning. No one, not even your BFFsie Jane, is on Pesterchum at this ridiculously late hour. Your cat isn't with you and you are thinking about your mother, who isn't present at the moment. Not like she has been for the last couple years.
Sometimes, you like to curl up in a pile of knitted blankets and dream about your mom. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, she'd stay with you until you fell asleep. You're not entirely sure if she stays longer. You like to pretend that she is right there with you, telling you about the time she fell unconcious. She told you she couldn't remember a thing about it, but she had written MEOW everywhere in her journal and on every page. Not a single sheet was left unmarked.
Other times, you'd curl up in a dark corner of your room as thoughts of your mom invade your head. At those moments, you want to yell at her, shout at her, scream at her. Why did she leave? Why does she go away so much? Why does she say she loves you when she rarely shows it? If only she hadn't written that damned series of hers. If only she was home more often. If only she were here.
That would be when you'd bust out the alchohol and drown yourself in the bitter liquid until you couldn't tell the difference from a chair and a your cat. Your poor, faithful, lovely cat. Man, you shouldn't think about him too much. It always made you nostalgic.
Frigglish was the best cat there was. And you mean the best. He didn't complain when you put that irritating suit on him, although at the time, you failed to notice how bothersome it was. It was a miracle how much he could put up with your crazy antics. You put whiskey in his water bowl before, for God's sake! But that cat was just as loving as could be, always knowing when you were thinking about your mom. If you didn't stop moping, he'd bat at your nose until you did. You were so grateful for that.
You doubt the feeling was mutual. After all, you were the end of him. Was it not you who dropped Jane's copy of Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text on him? The enormous book crushed Frigglish like an ant under a foot. It took some time to adjust to not having someone always being there for you.
God, you loved that cat.
And your dad? Mom used to say that he left before you were born. Apparently, he moved back to Texas to stay with his bro. Your mother had long forgotten his address and he never called home, so there was no way to contact him. So basically, you have no recollections of the guy who helped bring you into this world. Well, that's one less person to make your melancholic life all the more miserable.
You can almost imagine it. Your cat curled up next to you, looking like a black ball of fur, with the exception of his cute little button nose. Your mother knitting quietly next to you on your bed, her needles clacking in a hypnotic rhythm. She's humming softly, a tune you know. It's the Midnight Crew song. You sigh, content with the atmosphere. It's nice being wi-
Your heart nearly gives up on you when a tree crashes through your window. You scream, fearing for your life. You try to back away from it, but the wall behind you cuts your journey short. You want to shrink until you're nothing. To crush into the wall. To run away from all your current troubles. Namely, the tree that has disturbed your sweet dreams.
Suddenly, the wall you're squished against moves, and you jump. Warmth restricts you and you struggle, trying to scramble away from any contact. "Roxy, stop! It's me!" You immediately stop wriggling around. Some part of you doesn't want to believe it, but the other half desperately wants it to be true. How can she be here?
You refuse to open your eyes, even as you feel yourself being lifted off the ground. You're deposited onto a bed moments later. You feel the area to the left of you sink down. She probably sat down. You don't realize you are crying until she holds a tissue to your face. As she wipes away your tears, she begins to tell you a story, a familiar one. One about the time she blacked out. When she awoke, she picked up her special pen, the one you decorated for her in preschool, pink and purple and adorned with glitter and kittens, and flipped to the next blank page. Or she would've, if there was any clean page left. She strokes your hair as she tells you. Does she even know whether you're asleep or not?
She leans down and places a chaste kiss to your forehead, and it says a thousand unspoken words. The thousand words she never got to say. She gets up and you wish she hadn't. You hear footsteps padding softly to the other side of the bed. The sheets shift and there's a weight beside you. Then, you reach out and snake your arms around her waist. She starts. Well, that certainly answers your question. You will her to hug you back. She pulls you in closer, and an audible sigh leaves you, and you could care less that you're 16. Sleep overpowers you and your eyelids slowly close.
When you next open your vivid azalea eyes, you're disappointed to find a cold bed. Of course, it was just a dream. You start to tear up a little, but you toughen up. This is nothing. You've lasted 4 years without that woman. What's another day? You try not to fall victim to the sweet lulling of sleep and drag yourself out of bed. Besides, you feel disgusting from all your sobbing and you look a mess. You stare at your feet as you slowly make your way downstairs.
She's reading her own book when you open the door to your living room. She puts it down as soon as she acknowledges your presence. "Good morning, Roxy. I trust you had a peaceful sleep?"
It takes you a while to regain enough of your composure to stop looking like a fish. Although, you probably could've passed off as one. You've already gotten the smell down.
You feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes again and you crack the first weak, joyful, trembly smile in what feels like forever.
"You know I love you, right?"
"As much as I do."
"I missed you, Mom."
"I missed you too, Roxy."