Usual disclaimer applies.
March, 2012
~45~
Despite the bewildering conversation with Jasper, and the pointless argument with Sam, I arrive home pretty early, with plenty of enough time to make a decent meal for Dad and I.
But when I arrive, I am alarmed to find the front door to my apartment unlocked.
Peeking my head in, my pocketknife opened and held tightly in my hand at my hip, I am startled to see my dad sitting on the living room couch, beer in hand, eyes trained on the television.
"Dad? Don't you work until…"
He cuts me off. "Not today, Bella." The smile that usually greets me from Dad is nonexistent, and I know he has had a bad day.
~SW~
Supper with Dad is even worse. He doesn't speak unless he is asking me to pass him something from the table and he never once makes eye-contact with me.
I am starting to get a knot in the pit of my stomach. Why does his problem seem more to do with me than a work-related issue? Why is he avoiding me? I can't help but feel let down, to feel abandoned. Dad is the one person in this whole, crazy world that I can really count on, that I trust. What would I do without that trust?
And maybe I'm overreacting; maybe my emotional state has been so severely compromised these past few weeks that it is now affecting my relationship with my dad. I don't know. I just wish these feelings of rejection would go away.
~SW~
I am staring up at my ceiling, randomly making shapes and patterns in its texture, when I remember the dream I had had a while ago, about Mom's box. Wasn't it calling to me or something? Is there perhaps something more to be found in its depths that I have overlooked in the past?
I get up from my bed, and switch the light on. I blink away my sleepiness and my eyes slowly adjust to the intruding light. But as I move towards my closet and open the door, I know something is amiss.
Mom's box is gone.
.
.
.
Charlie.