KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
"TARA!" A voice shouted in the night, "TARA! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
3:00 AM.
Mom was awake. And along with her now, so was the whole house. Thanks, mom.
A door slowly creaked open,"Mom, what the heck...?" Tara would say, the groggyness in her voice evident.
"Missy, what did I tell you about leaving soda cans all over the counter?!"
Oh my stars.
"I was gonna get rid of 'em tomorrow, ma, chill..."
"No! Absolutely not!" Mom'd shout back, "You know much better than this! Trash goes in the TRASH! I don't want it anywhere else, not for a single minute! I've told you this since you were a little girl, Tara!"
Tara, courteous of others, didn't prolong the conversation any longer, "...Sorry mom. I won't do it again. I promise." The sigh she let out after was loud and clear, even with it being muffled by my bedroom's drywall. She had that tone in her voice, the kind of tone where she was mad at herself for making a mistake and yet, unsure if she should be more annoyed at herself or at mom.
"Good, good...I'm sorry for waking you up." Mom'd say. Even in her angriest tirades, she still knew how to be polite, "Goodnight, Tara...Love you."
"Love you too, mom." Tara slowly closed her door. Some footsteps on the hall later and I notice the light under my door go out. And then, another door closes. I could finally close and rest my weary eyes again.
I didn't know who to feel bad for the most. Mom, as much as she had a tendency to freak out over the smallest things, just wanted the house she cared so much for squeaky clean and without a single piece of furniture out of place. Tidy and neat - perfection. It was the one thing she cared for the most her whole life. There was no changing her regarding that. It was a blessing and a curse for her.
And Tara...well, she could just be forgetful at times. But I know, and my mom knows, she'd never do something of the sort out of malice. A late-night freakout of that sort was unwarranted. But, we had long since grown used to it.
Actually, you know what? I know who I felt the worst for...grandpa.
Grandpa Jones slept in the guest room just next to my sister's. It was no mystery that mom's theatrics had woken him up to; he never were a light sleeper. And, well, just like us, mom wasn't discriminative when it came to treating him the way she treats us; like children. Even he'd catch flak for things that, well, weren't really in his control. But unlike us, there'd be no response for him.
Grandpa was a ruined canvas, the painting on it washed away by rain. A quiet man. Even with mom yelling in his face, he'd express nothing, not a peep nor a frown. I could only wonder what he thought of his daughter, watching her treat him like that. Disappointment? Sadness...? Or maybe pride?
I furrowed my brows and turned onto my side. It was no time to think of such things.
Perhaps, later in life, it'd all make sense to me.
BEEP BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEP!
8:00 AM.
The Star Fox QnA was scheduled just two hours from now on.
I sat up, pushing my blanket off myself and rubbing my eyes. One foot touches the floor, then the other. And then...I dart toward the door, swinging it open and making a break for the bathroom. I can't be late.
As I reach the sink, I grab onto it and I stare deep into the face of the reflection that stares back at me. In there, I see a young jackal, brown messy hair partly covering his blue eyes. In there, I see the face of a nineteen year old reinvigorated by childlike wonder. I can't be late.
That's you, Chase. A man desperate to see the very same team who you've only seen through TV screens, digital billboards and CRT monitors. The heroes of Lylat. The people who saved your life, your family's life, your house and your planet. You can't be late.
Double-timed it through the shower. I flew out of the bathroom with my fur rinsed, my hair brushed back, my eyes wide open and a grin on my face. Back in my room, I threw the wet towel at the wall, gracing the posters glued up there with the less-than-impressive view of a scrawny naked jackal putting on a black hoodie, a yellow shirt, jeans and sneakers. There was no time to be picky about clothing.
I rushed downstairs, feet thudding against the staircase, grinning. I felt unstoppable. I had waited long for this. I deserved this. I felt-
"CHASE!" Mom yelled at me from the bottom of the stairs. I freeze up, "What'd I tell you about running in the house?! You lose your mind?!"
Shoot.
"A-Ah, sorry, mom! Big day!" I said. There was no time to argue. I had to get going.
Reaching the last step of the staircase, I try to zoom past her...but I'm stopped by the tight yank of her hand grabbing me by my hood and pulling me back.
"Hey, hey, hey!" She says, looking right at me, "What is this? Where do you think you're going, huh? Breakfast isn't ready yet! Should be done in..." She veers her eyes toward the grandfather clock, then right back at me, "Just about an hour...and a half."
"An hour and a half? Mom, I'm gonna be late! Come on!" I whined.
"That ain't nothing of my concern now, is it?" Ah, there it is. The look. That classic mom look, "You wait for your food, because you're not going anywhere until you're done with it." And with that, she just turns around and heads right back toward the kitchen. No use trying to head out the front door anyway; she'd hunt me down and drag me back home by my tail if she had to.
Looked like the big day was getting a big delay. With a heavy sigh, I head back up the stairs, figuring I'll just spend some time in my room by myself. On the way there, I bump into Tara and Grandpa in the hallway.
"Hey Chase." She smiled to me. She'd push Grandpa on his wheelchair right in front of her, "How'd you sleep?"
"As...well as I could." I shrugged to her, "You?"
She took a deep breath, let it out with a hiss, "Yeah...you heard what happened the other night. Never forgetting soda on the counter again."
"That's what you said last time." I chuckled, crossing my arms. She rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, bro. I gotta get Gramps to the bathroom. I'll catch you in a bit before breakfast."
"No rush." I responded, letting her through, Grandpa looking as stoic as ever. I'd push the door into my bedroom and shut it behind me, collapsing on my messy bed...what to do, huh?
Oh, that one story I started the other day. Surely getting the creative juices flowing before I get to the con center will be a good idea. I hop back onto my feet and sit at my computer. The sound of that old computer fan whirring as it boots up provides some background noise for me.
Once the desktop is on, I waste no time in getting the document file back up...huh, silly me. I spent so many braincells working on the plot yesterday I hadn't even thought of giving this story a proper name. Let's go with...
Out Of This World! Nah, too cliché.
Alternate Dimensions? Hm...too generic and direct, sounds like something you'd read at school.
Cosmic Raiders? No, no, there's probably already a game with that name...hm. Damn. I was really having trouble with coming up with names, but not having trouble coming up with a bombastic plot at all...then again, it's not like it was something completely original. Basing an original story off of an already existing intelectual property. Hah, what a silly thing to do.
How about...Urgh.
Urgh.
Urgh?
Urgh would be an interesting name. Doesn't mean anything, but, it'd be unusual. People love the unusual.
And so, my story's name became Urgh. Another genius move from Chase the jackal.
Knock knock knock knock.
"Hey, Chase, can I have a word with you?" Tara asked behind the door.
"Yeah, yeah, come in." I'd respond, looking over my shoulder, watching her walk right into my room, wearing a leather jacket and some black denim pants, her long brown hair tied back into a ponytail.
"Hey hey," She said, taking a seat directly on my bed, smiling to me, "Whatcha workin' on, huh?"
I glanced over to the CRT screen for a second, "Oh, uh, this? Just some other attempt at making a best-seller." I joked. To that, she laughed a bit.
"Already? Didn't you give up on a story like, literally the other day, dude?"
She had a point. I was persistent when it came to getting a story going back then. Couldn't handle the idea of not having some sort of work of mine in progress. I scoffed at her, rolling my eyes, "Yeah, yeah, well...can't call myself a writer if I'm not writing, huh?"
"Hm, yeah, suppose so...didn't come here to judge your writing though." She'd retort, making me cock an eyebrow.
"What's on your mind, then?"
"Well..." She'd roll her eyes, looking away from me for a second, "...How've you been feeling, bro?"
"..." I shifted my eyes around, "...Hm?"
"Like, how have you been, Chase?" She repeated her question, like that would've helped. I expressed confusion on my face, making her elaborate, shifting forward a bit on my bed, "Lately, you've been like...distant, dude. Not like, y'know, Grandpa levels of distant, but...y'know, you don't seem all there."
"What are you talking about, Tara?"
"Man, c'mon," She chortled, "I see you staring out your window every night or so when I get home late. And then I come upstairs and see your door open, I look inside and you're just like, gazing off into Corneria."
"Well, yeah, it's a great view-"
"No, Chase." She shook her head, sighing, "Dude, like, you barely talk anymore during dinner with us. You're always deflecting when we ask you about your real feelings. Me and mom, we were talking on the ride home back in the day about you and it's like...we can see the toll writing's taking on you."
Even with her elaboration, I remained just as confused, "...I never said writing's easy. It's my passion. It's..." I choked up for a second, "...Well, it's the one thing I can actually do right."
"See? That's what I mean. That ain't true at all, lil' bro. Between the two of us, who's the one that got their driver's license first?"
"...Yeah, me. So?" I shrugged, "I don't see your point."
"You're a smart little dude. You can do a lot of things. You run and climb pretty good, you drive..." She paused for a second, waving her hand, "Mostly good. Maybe writing's not really something you need to dedicate your life to."
"But this is what I love doing, Tara." I put my hand on my desk, turning my face toward the screen again. Ironic, considering I hadn't even written a single word on that story that day besides the title, "I need this to work out. Imagine the credits we'll make when I finally publish something great! You know how good I am at this."
The first mistake of a writer; overconfidence. No wonder it never worked out for me.
"Yeah...but..." Her gaze drifted away, "...What if that never happens, Chase?"
I tilted my head, furrowed my brows. Deep inside of me there, I felt...curious. Somewhat taken aback, "...What are you talking about, Tara?"
"Don't get me wrong, Chase. You got the potential. But that isn't enough to get you where you want to be, is it?"
"No, it ain't. You need the skills, you need-" Something clicked in me. There was a brief pause and I gave my sister the coldest glare I could muster, "...Are you...are you doubting me, Tara? Is that what's going on right now?"
"No, Chase! I'm just saying that you should maybe shift your focus on other things besides writing. Get a new hobby. You're a good writer, but, look, be real to yourself," Tara wasn't holding any punches. I liked that about her, "Nothing is coming out of this."
I went silent, shifting my look away from her. I didn't want to admit it at the time, but she was right, and deep inside, I knew that. I had begun writing as a form of coping mechanism back when things were rough at home. The thing about picking up a productive hobby like that during such an awkward time in your life is that it's easy to fool yourself into believing that hobby is the one thing keeping your life together and your sanity stable. You fall into a comfort bubble that you don't want to get out of. But sooner or later, you'll be yanked back out.
"Chase..." Tara sighed, noting my silence, "...You really shouldn't hold onto things just because you like them. They may not always benefit you."
"Tara, I know. I do...I'm not freaking...ten, okay?" I tried raising my face back to her but something forbid me from doing it. Back then, I called it anger. Later on, I realized it was just shame. Emotions have a tendency to spring up to your defense when you least need them.
"...Think about it, Chase." Tara said, standing up from my bed, "I'm gonna go check on Grandpa. Should be done in the bathroom by now." Her footsteps distanced from me in direction of my door, and I still couldn't bring my face up to face her. Only when I heard the sound of it close did I take a deep breath and raise my head up.
Urgh, huh? This is it. This is the story that's going to put me into my deserved fame and fortune, or so I wanted to fool myself into believing.
My family needs it. I need it. This would be the story of the ages.
A couple of thousand click clacks from my keyboard later, and at least three thousand more words had been put onto that story. The funny thing now is, if you were to ask me what I even wrote back then, I couldn't tell you for the life of me. When you're dedicated to building a story, you don't even think about it as you carve your protagonist's path through it, you just do. And this time around, I wasn't writing just using my creativity, I was writing it using my anger.
Tara doubted me and my capability to construct a narrative that would shock the audiences of Corneria and catapult my name into stardom and give our family all the money it could never need. I wanted to show her, that I could do whatever I wanted if I could set my mind to it. What can I say, I was young.
Another two thousand words later and I was interrupted by reality knocking at my door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
"Breakfast's up!" Mom shouted through the door. I hadn't even seen the time pass.
Saving my progress on the document, I shut down my computer and bolted out the door once more. It was almost time and I couldn't afford to be late. I sprinted down the stairs in direction to the kitchen. Mom once again had less-than-flattering things to say about my rush.
"CHASE!" She shouted from the dinner table, "BOY, WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!"
"Sorry, ma! Just," I reached for my plate, grabbing it and sitting down, "Really, really in a rush."
"Those Star Fox mercs aren't going nowhere. You can eat your food in peace."
Hm, fresh toast with peanut butter for me. I didn't realize it back then, but, that was the last time in a while I'd really appreciate mother's cooking. The flavor melted in my mouth as I chewed it. It was like biting into a little piece of heaven.
Paradise. What defines paradise to me? Safety and peace. Free from worries, free from danger. This would be a concept I'd learn later and then retroactively apply to many parts of my life where I didn't realize I was living through paradise.
One delicious peanut butter toast and a warm cup of milk later and I was already wiping my mouth and getting up from the table, "Delicious, mom!" I'd say, "You knocked it out of the park with that one."
Mom, for once, smiled, while she kept enjoying her soup, "Don't mention it, honey. You heading out now?" She asked, looking up to me.
"Yeah. I gotta go meet them." I'd say, taking steps back from the table, "I'll be back before evening, promise!"
"Before eight, Chase." Mom sternly advised me, "I know how you are with managing time."
"Yeah, yeah, before eight!" I repeated, "I love you, mom! I'll see you soon!"
"Love you too, Chase." She'd answer.
I'd turn around and head for the garage, retrieving my bicycle stashed just by mom's car and riding it right out. The sad thing about driver's permits is that they never come with a car of your own. But oh well, I needed the cardio.
Riding out my neighborhood, I didn't go easy on the pedalling; I had waited ten years for this. And now, down at Dakota Stewarts Convention Center? They were waiting for me.