Uh Hi! I have had this story in my mind for what seems like forever, so I finally decided to write the sucker down. This story is VERY LOOSELY related to Phantom Of The Opera by Gaston Leroux. He was the one who created the book, this is a very loose adaptation of it. None of the names are the same in it, the only thing really related to it is the man who depicts Erik. And a certain death. But everything else was from my crazy mind. This is my first story on this really complicated site so I'm just warming up. Have fun reading (or more like suffering :)

The thing about home

Blood. That was the first thing Glenda saw when she walked into her fathers' room that dreadful night. He was sprawled out on the mattress of his bed. His eyes wide open and glassy, a pistole residing in his right hand, and his left dangling off the side of the bed. His night close were ripped and cut in places as if he had been slashed multiple times, but nearly missed each blow.

She remembers her tears upon her face, and the screams bubbling in her throat. She remembers running outside into the street screaming for help. She remembers the sirens and the police. She remembers it all.

Except for the feeling part. It was gone. It seemed as if her feelings were a book, and the person who was reading it ripped out the entire chapter that held her sadness and anger. It wasn't there. It was empty. Not a drop of sadness. She felt wrung out, stretched the the bone, and lost in the world. She was numb and scared. Her world shattering within a number of seconds. A gunshot, a scream, and a few shock ridden tears, and her life was over.

The thing about home to small Glenda Ekon was that it was safe. Her father had always told her that home was her safe. Where she could cry and laugh, where she could feel and fall. That was what home was for. But the problem was that whenever he told her this, he always told her that it wasn't the house that was her home, it was him. He told her he was her home, and that we would never leave her until she was ready. Well, on the deep morning of October fourteenth, she knew she wasn't ready. She knew the moment she saw his still chest and gone eyes, that she was not ready to leave her home. She was barely fifteen, how was she supposed to live without the only person in the world that truly mattered to her? How was she supposed to keep going feeling that that?

How was she supposed to continue going with the knowledge that the very death of her father didn't bring her sadness and grief, but fear and numbness?

That early morning, she was escorted to the police station and sat there for hours. She tried to focus on the sound of the telephones, and how they clicked into their little spots, and how satisfying the sound was. She tried to focus on how many time the officer who managed the desk blinked within the span of two and a half minutes because human nature has a certain way of making that happen. She tried to focus on her breathing. She taught herself how to breathe through her nose and out of her mouth at the same time. She taught herself to crack her back without it hurting, and where exactly her neck was hurting at that moment. She focused on the tapping of the old women's foot who was sitting across from her, waiting for her son to get out of jail because he vandalized a street vendors cart. She left, scolding the young boy as she walked out of the door. She knew he vandalized a street vendors cart because of her gossip on the phone with someone she knew very well. Or at least that's what Glenda thought, considering how the old women spoke to the poor person who was on the other side of that line. Either she had a lot of nerve, or that person had to stand through life knowing such a person.

By noon, she had a sore mind and a plane ticket to a small place called St. Abbs in East Lothian Scotland to live with her aunt named Maris for the rest of her life. The rest of the details were not told to her in an effort to "keep things simple." For her because she could experience severe post-traumatic stress disorder if she is strained too much.

'To late.' was all she could think. Her mind was already confused and blurry, she knew her metal stability would never be the same, but for some reason, her mind couldn't zero in on the fact and just kept going back to her fathers figure sprawled out on his bed. She wondered if they called the paramedics, or if they just zipped him up into one of those white bags that you put those really fancy dresses in, and threw him into the back of a truck or something like she's seen them do in movies. Her body shook and her hands grew sweaty at the thought. She wondered if she'd even be able to go to his funeral, they said she was leaving tomorrow, would they be able to do a service, would she even be able to say goodbye? Could she even manage to say goodbye if she had the chance? Or would all those emotions she thought were gone come back up to greet her fathers' fresh spirit? He would know what to do. What would he do? Her mind wandered back to something he had said to her when she ran to him crying about a friend who was moving, and she didn't know if she could say goodbye.

"Always say goodbyes to those you know you will miss. Or you will regret not doing so. Your last interaction is the one you mind is on the most."

Hearing his voice echo within her mind made her heart wilt. Oh, she missed him, but maybe she should find a way to properly say goodbye. Maybe it wasn't a maybe for her, maybe it was a must.

'Yes,' she thought. 'I must say goodbye.'