Stage Five: Acceptance
Rain pattered against the window sill like thousands of tiny pebbles, creating an unignorable tapping that made me cover my head with the immaculate pillow.
Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks and, somehow, I'm still alive.
It's a fucking miracle.
Remember how I hate the sun? Well, the same goes for rain. I hate rain. I despise rain. It doesn't shut up.
I find myself liking this house, though. When it rained, water would always drip from the cracks in the ceiling, and I'd wake up soaking wet, having to dump all my clothes and buy new ones from whatever second rate outlet I could find. It was one of the few downsides of living in a circus. The only thing classifying you as 'inside' are four walls of cheap tin connected to a tow truck.
This, with the thick, muffled walls and the built in ventalation, I could get used to. Plus the pool. The pool was just awesome.
I looked at the torn, faded poster that I taped to the headboard of the bed, the only personel touch to the entire room. It was only outlines, one big, one small, one smaller, with cheep scan-on stars bordering the sides, the letters large and flashing. We never had much time for pictures, taking them or anything. Only when we needed new flyers, because we ran out of the old ones. Even then, they weren't very good, and I never really saw them. It didn't bother me. I never thought I would ever need pictures, anyway.
There's a knock on the door, and I tell them to come in, whoever it is, just because this isn't my house and I have no right to say no.
It's Bruce, in his stiff buisness suit, just like before. He looks hesitant, awkward. I sit up and stare at him, maybe trying to make him feel more awkward, just for kicks.
He says hi, I say hi back. He ask me how I'm doing, I say fine. He tells me I can start school whenever, I shrug. It's a very one demensional conversation for a while. When I'm sure he's out of questions, I expect him to leave. He doesn't. He hasn't run out of questions, apparently.
"Are you okay?"
I don't expect it. It's one of the most generic, simple questions in the world. It's either 'yes' or 'no'. But somehow, I'm flustered.
I think about it.
I'm not dead, I remind myself, I'm still sane. I'm not dead yet.
They're dead, though. I can't get myself to be upset anymore.
"Yeah," I say, "I'm fine."
Very clearly, he has no experience with kids. He seems like he knows alot, though, which is some consolation.
"You...uh...wanna talk?"
I look at the hole in the wall where the baseball went in, "About what?" I ask, "'s not like I can do anything about it."
He pauses, "Right."
We don't say anything, and then he decides he's going to leave. He turns back, only to tell me Alfred will have dinner ready soon, and he closes the door behind him.
Well, I feel accomplished.
At least I don't want to jump off the roof anymore.
Author's Note: JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?!!??? You all wanted a corny ending and...I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I hate corny. I loathe corny. Don't expect corny. Thats the corniest I can squeeze out.