3 paragraphs, seemed like a good limit at a time. Now I'm rethinking that. But not enough to stop. LOL. Some things in life should make you rub your chin and go hummm I wonder? I wonder if Disney likes me or any of us writing these fics?
Chapter 6.
I always think about Rick on Thursdays. I hate Thursdays now. This was family day; family togetherness activities only, just like in cheesy 50 style situation comedies. No TV was allowed on that day. Instead it was games usually of Monopoly, Scrabble, or Candy Land. Talking and sharing about our week of course Fi didn't have much to share at that stage of her young life. Now whenever Thursday's come around I get sad and angry. I get sad and angry everyday, but on this day it's a different level of those emotions. Sadness because Rick isn't here to continue the tradition on; I had tried just my heart wasn't into it. Mainly because all Jack tried to talk about was his daddy, still young and trying to fully comprehend the true meaning of death. The angry comes through because I know that even if Rick was alive we won't have Thursday tradition, both the kids would find it babyish and refuse to participate. For just one day, one hour I want everything the way it was. I'll even take one minute, one roll of the die with all four of us gathered around the table.
Silence. I still can't get used to it. It's such an eerie sound that puts your hair on it because you figure something bad will happen any second. Silence means everything is peaceful and times of peace don't last long. So you find yourself on edge waiting for the bomb to drop or in my case someone to yell across the rooms. The songs aren't in me; I hope Irene isn't too disappointed in me. What am I saying? I know she will be, the sweet spoken lecture of you just need to work harder, put some effort into will begin again. The same speech each time I swear every word is always exactly the same. If it didn't work the first 83 times will it this time? No, but I'm sure that won't stop her.
I wrote my first song when I was eight. At that time and a few years later I thought I was a genius and the noble peace prize of writing would be mine very soon. Just foolish dreams of stupid girls was all I had. I showed my 6th grade teacher it, the first grown up I ever let see it. She had torn it apart metaphorically and physically. Right there as I stood in horror unable to find words to tell her stop she ripped the paper apart. Saying I had more potential then this and childness like this won't get me anywhere. I wish I could remember how it went, make it a hit just to shove it in her face. But with my luck she's must likely dead.