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I stand with a blank expression now, and I can't believe myself. Would someone tell me, how did I get here? I am walking; changing slowly. I am chasing; climbing closer. I know that I'll never be alone. You will never let me go. You are my anchor. Hold my hand while I'm sinking in the sand. No one else could understand.
You are my anchor.
Wade/Brommel.
Prologue: You
Lily's POV:
There is a knock on my door.
"Lily. . . sweetheart? Dinner's ready."
I groan before turning over in my bed. My bed sheets are wrinkled and I suddenly feel slightly disgusting. Cautiously opening one eye, I realize that I had fallen dead asleep on my English homework.
"Damn," I mutter quietly before there is another knock at my door.
"Lily, honey, is something wrong?"
"No Mom! I'm fine," I yell before scrambling to push back bed sheets and stack my homework up in a semi-orderly pile. Running a hand through my hair I realize that my hair had come down from its pig-tail braids.
My door opens and I sit up quickly. My mother stands in the doorway, her gaunt and tired figure eased against the door frame. Her eyes were glittering but I could tell that she was tired by the way her face was drawn in loose bitter wrinkles. She was a pretty woman for her age, but she did look her age-- no older and no younger.
Smiling, I shake my head so that my hair falls out of what little of the braids that are left. My mother laughs before saying, "Your hair looks pretty like that-- all crinkled."
"Thanks, Mom," I say before opening my dresser drawer and pulling on some drawstring pants. As I'm putting them on, I see my mother frown at me.
"Honey. . . you might want to put something nicer on. Simone's fiancé is coming to dinner tonight," she says quietly, her obvious weariness straining her voice. Looking up, I feel a tug of hurt course through my veins at the expression on her face.
Biting my lip, I push back my tears of disappointment. My mother's expression tears me to pieces inside, but I know that I can do nothing about it. Even after all these years, after three children, her regret is still fresh and obvious on her face. She never wanted to be married. She never wanted children. She didn't want this pre-packaged suburban life that is sometimes so brain-numbingly dull you don't realize that you're still alive.
Nodding my head, I grab a sweater and a pair of jeans out of my chest drawers before quietly slipping them on. "I'll be down in a second, Mom," I say with a muffled voice through my sweater.
I hear my mother leave while I put my shoes and socks on. I can hear my smaller brother running down the hallway, telling the world that he's Buzz Lightyear, superhero extroadinare. I hear the doorbell ring and my mother and father greet a laughing Simone. I can hear a young man introduce himself as Andrew DeMoore. I hear them go into the kitchen for a night of small talk.
I am tying up my shoe when a dangerous thought crosses my mind. Sitting up straight, I stare at my reflection in the mirror as if I was checking to see if I was still there. Surely, the thoughts that were coursing through my head weren't mine. Surely. I look hesitantly at my window before frowning at my absurdity. The wind outside makes a tree knock it's branches against my windowpane. Crack, Snap, Crack. . .
The weather is uneasy, as it isn't quite sure if it is angry or simply melancholy. Yet, even with the ominous gray clouds hanging threateningly outside, I want nothing more to crawl outside and lay in the grass until I feel nothing. I want to run so hard I cannot tell if I have lost my breath or gained it. I want to lay on cool cement and cry and laugh. I want it to rain so hard I will grab the nearest stranger and press my lips so hard against them, you would think my life depended on it.
But that was absurdity.
Shaking my head, I gingerly open my door and walk slowly down the steps of my house. I can hear laughing people in the kitchen, and my mother talking quietly with Simone. As I walk into the family den, I see my father sitting in his easy chair, talking with a handsome man.
My dad, seeing me, breaks into a large grin. "Here she is!" He exclaims before grabbing my shoulders and shaking me affectionately. The young man smiles at me, showcasing a row of dazzling white teeth. "This is my other little princess," my father leans in and then comments to the young man, "but don't think you can have both." With that, he laughs so hard, his face turns red. The young man, who I think is the famous Andrew DeMoore, simply chuckles, but I know he didn't think that the joke was funny at all. My brother finally runs through the room, jumping on the sofa and screaming that he will vaporize all of us.
My dad picks him up and swings him around while my brother lets out screams of delight. I simply nod my head at Andrew DeMoore before creeping unnoticed into the kitchen.
I can tell that there is tension in the room immediately. My mother is peeling potatoes while my pregnant sister sits angrily at the kitchen table. Her face is drawn in a tight line while she stares blankly ahead of her.
"Hey Simone," I greet weakly before going to the cabinet, pulling out a glass for a drink.
"Don't use the regular glasses, honey," my mother states in a gentle voice before dropping a potato-half into a boiling pot of water. "We're using the good crystal tonight."
I open another drawer before pulling out a nice crystal glass. The glass catches the dull yellow kitchen light and reflects quiet rainbows on the wall. Filling it up with water from the facet, I watch as Simone opens her mouth as if to say something but then doesn't.
Swallowing my water thickly, I look her over. "I heard that you went in for an ultra-sound this morning, Simone."
My sister doesn't look at me. Instead, she simply nods her head bitterly.
Biting my lip, I stare at the water in the glass. There are tiny rainbows in water, shimmering lightly; they make the room seem darker. "So, do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"
Simone simply shifts in her chair before snapping, "Well, according to Mom it's nothing but a blob of tissue as of yet."
I look up in surprise and glance at my mother, who is still cutting potatoes, but a look of horror has crossed her face. She is staring so hard into the pot of boiling water that Simone can't see her face.
"Wha. . . ?" I asked before looking in confusion at my sister, who has a hand to her head now.
"Why don't you tell her what's going on, Mom," Simone bites bitterly before standing up with a little bit of difficulty. Her stomach is getting larger by the days.
My mother simply keeps peeling her potatoes while saying meekly, "I'm just saying Simone that you have no idea what you're getting into. . ."
"You mean what you got into, Mom!" Simone yells before throwing her hands in the air with frustration. "God, Mother, you'd think after twenty-five years of marriage and three good kids maybe something would change your goddamn mind!"
My mother's eyes start to swell with tears. She turns to Simone before pointing a wavering finger, "You have no idea what you're talking about Simone. . ."
"Well, goddammit Mom, neither do you. . .!"
"Keep your voice down, young lady!"
Simone grunts in frustration before snorting, "No, I don't think I will Mom. And here's another thing: Me and Andrew are having this baby whether it pleases you or not. Don't bring you're regret on my family. I am not you, Mom!" Then, with squinted eyes, she shook her head, "And I will not have the abortion you always wish you had. Sorry I fuckin' ruined your life by being born." With that, she stormed out of the room. A few seconds later I heard her demanding frantically to Andrew DeMoore that they leave this house in a instant. Andrew DeMoore seemed confused and my father did too. But, after a few minutes, I heard the door slam and everything was quiet except for my father saying, "Well, what the hell just happened?"
The door to the kitchen swings open and my father comes storming in.
"Irene, what the hell did you say to her?" He demands before grabbing my brother from off the ground, making sure he was safe from the frustrated anger that seems to radiate from my father to my mother .
My mother throws down her knife and the potatoes before storming upstairs, her sobs heard as she slams her bedroom door upstairs.
My father stands stunned for a long time before he wonders out the kitchen door, a dazed look on his face, as if he wasn't aware of the world around him.
I look into the good crystal glass and see the rainbows. Frowning and feeling tears smart my eyes, I throw my glass into the kitchen sink. I hear it shatter, but it doesn't matter. Running to the front door, I finally feel the first tear fall; I watch it shatter. As I open the door, I feel the cool burst of indecisive air hit my face. The dark ominous clouds rumble overhead.
I ask myself where I am going.
"Somewhere from here," I say to myself before walking into the wind.
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Travis' POV:
Truism. I've heard the expression often times when people are so flustered with another person for not regarding a common known fact. They've become blue in the face, eyes blood-shot and mouths tight.
"How can you not think that same as me?" They declare indignant before throwing up their wronged hands, "This isn't a matter of opinion; this is simple truism."
Or, in other words: what is, is. There is no going around some things. The earth is round. One plus one is two. If you drop a plate of spaghetti off the Empire State's Building, it will fall, taking it's droopy, stainable palate along with it.
But, sometimes I wonder how much truism holds water with the issues of gray matter. I mean, how does one scientifically examine things like love? And what about hope? And what happens when someone becomes so enwrapped with their religion they do things beyond rational thought, like devote their lives to lepers in India? Or lead a nation to freedom through peaceful protest? Or blow up innocent people in a subway? Or lead an Empire on a crusade against thousands of woman and children just because they pray to the east rather than heavenward?
How does one go about explaining how one person can push love away and yet be so helplessly in love that sometimes they worry about their next breath? How does one go about explaining falling in love? Obviously Hollywood thinks they've got it down pat, especially since I've seen the newest installment of "A Relationship That Would Never Work In Real Life --(coming to a theater near you!)" on a billboard this morning. Is there a formula for it? Or is there simply something that is unexplainable, something that crouches in the deep corners of the gray area of truism that explains all of this messy and sordid thing called love? Does love have a few different meanings that sometimes we accidentally blur into one thing to fit our terrible excuse of consciousness?
I blink and suddenly all of my thoughts are gone. I am now staring at the dill pickle section of Ingles' Grocery.
Looking over my shoulder, I see my mother staring at me as if she is once again sizing me up. Her unimaginative eyes roam over me before sliding over to my sister, who is sitting on the cold tile floor next to the pickles. I can see the obvious inquiry in her eyes, and I frown as I realize that she wondering how these things-- the things that are staring at her with such strange expressions-- are actually her children. Her distaste twitches at the side of her mouth as she says, "Come on, Travis, Rachel; we've got to get home in time for the party. We've got to let Maria have time to make the hors d'oeuvre."
I keep my mouth glued together to keep myself from frowning. I try not to let my obvious distaste show through. However, my sister Rachel, does not mind a display of her annoyance.
Letting loose a sigh, Rachel stands up before walking away from the pickles. Her gray mohair purse flops on her side before she finally finds a suitable place to sit: on top of the milk jugs and next to the cream cheese. She pulls out a large book from her purse and starts to write in it, all the while sitting on top of the milk jugs, her long skirt folded among her legs as she sits indian style.
My mother, obviously perturbed and shocked at her daughter's abnormal behavior, looks at me wide-eyed. "What is wrong with her?" She whispers harshly to me before grabbing inside her Louis Vuitton purse, pulling out her keys to the BMW-- her one pride and joy.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?" I offer acidly, not bothering to keep my voice down.
The expression that crosses her face resembles somebody who has just been asked to do the impossible. But it is so easily squashed, most people would not have even recognized it. An indignant look comes across her face, as if she has just been offended, and she bristles immediately. "Well, I just don't think it's appropriate. No, not at all." She calls for my sister, but Rachel simply lets her lofty eyes glide over to my mother before she again ignores her. Huffing, my mother turns to me, demanding childishly, "Tell your sister to get over here this instant."
I feel my blood start to boil as I glare at my mother. "Or you'll do what?" I ask, and I can tell it's not the sort of tone you should use with your mother; I feel as if I am talking to a two-year old throwing a temper tantrum.
Opening her mouth, my mother is about to expel some kind of threat but then she hesitates.
Shaking my head, I turn on my heel and walk away from my mother, who is standing with a confused expression on her face, her car keys jangling loosely in her hands.
"Travis. . . Darling! Where are you going?"
"Somewhere away from you," I mutter quietly before pounding my way outside the grocery store.
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A/N: Ah, here I am, the annoying author. Anywho, this story sort of wrote itself for the past few weeks, and I just realized how terribly angsty it is. Shrugs Oh well. Oh, and I made up the whole Simone and Lily's brother bit, along with Travis and his sister, Rachel. I like Rachel, though, even though the way I dipict her is not what the writers of RFR had in mind (yes, Travis really does have an older sis named Rachel, but supposedly we're never going to see here, or so says Brent Piaskoski (uh, I think I spelled his name wrong. Sorry Brent!)). But did you likey? Should I continue? Tell me what you think, and I'll love you forever. Really. Flames and praise will be glomped, although I prefer constuctive criticism. Thanks a ton, guys!