chapter 9

Theme Song: Flames by Sia.

~~~

Julian McGregor 

           Stepping out onto the front porch, I take in the surroundings before me. 

It's the first time I actually care to have a direct look at the house opposite the one my dad and I just moved into.

It's the same color as ours and most other houses on this block.

White. 

With an equally white washed fence and a neatly mowed lawn. 

There's a little girl with short, ginger pigtails, sitting on the steps of the front porch and playing with a rag doll in her tiny hands.

This is new to me. All this is new to me. This whole city is new to me.

Around last month, if someone told me that I'd be leaving Waynesville, the small city where I grew up, to another, I'd say that he was kidding, because I couldn't see myself leaving Waynesville. Yet. I had memories there. Memories I couldn't just . . . abandon. 

Then, if someone told me, that I'd be leaving Waynesville without my mom and without letting my best friend, Jonathan, know because they both die, I'd call that person a bozo and probably give him one or two punches, you know, just to clear things up. 

But here I am, in a town which is certainly not Waynesville, without my mom and without telling Jonathan because they're both dead.

It's funny how someone's life can change in one night. 

One big, messed up night. 

I shake the thought away quickly. Its always better off not thinking about the past. 

Digging my hands into my pockets, I begin down the porch steps.

"Julian, where are you off to this time?" 

I stop and turn around at the voice. 

My dad's standing at the door, a hand on the door knob.

His eyes and nose are red and puffy. He's been drinking again. And crying.

Drinking and crying, pretty much all he's been doing since mom's death.

"I'm just gonna take a walk. I'll be back before you know it," I tell him.

"What about the boxes. We still have some of it to unpack. I can't do all of it alone," he grumbles.

"I already did that. Last night. After you passed out."

"Oh."

I make to turn away from him when I remember something. 

"Dad," I speak up, fixing my gaze on him.

"Yeah?" 

"No. More. Drinking," I say very slowly. "That's what we agreed on. Remember?" 

He doesn't reply for a short while then slowly he nods.

"Yes," he sighs. "Certainly."

Satisfied with his reply, I walk down the rest of the steps. I'm about to take a turn right and away from the house when he calls me.

"Julian."

"Yeah?" I look up at him from below the porch rails which he's leaning on now.

"When will you be back?" he asks.

Although he doesn't say the words, I hear them. Loud and clear. 

I don't want to be alone here.

There's a short silence between both of us as I contemplate the answer.

"Expect me back in two," I decide.

"Okay."

He heaves himself off the rails and plods back into the house. 

Taking in a deep breath and expelling it quickly, I turn away from the house and walk toward the path. 

The path I had made on the first day I arrived here, Charlottesville, Florida, a neighboring city to Waynesville. 

Dad's too hard on himself.

It's a thought that's been nagging at me ever since mom's death. Although I know the reason he's the way he is.

Mom's accident, her death, was caused by him. 

At first, when I found out, I was angry at him. Almost hated him.

Mom had always warned him not to drive drunk, but he was always drunk, had a car and knew how to use it and so he used it, drunk. 

The night my mom died they'd had a fight. Again. It had been becoming almost as frequent as I play video games. Which was a lot. 

Dad, as usual, stormed out of the house, most expectedly to be back later at midnight, utterly drunk.

Mom too left the house in her dark blue Ford. That was the last time I saw her. The last time I looked into her lively, brown eyes.

I drove myself to prom that night. 

Sighing, I clench my fists in my pockets. I said I wasn't going to think about it. 

Screw my thoughts. 

Disdainfully, I kick a rock along the path. It bounces away and stops a short distance ahead of me.

Stupid rock.

I'm approaching the clearing to which the path opens into. A clearing I had uncovered. 

No stars there for me though. 

I came across it mostly because it's pretty close to our house. Although it's sort of hidden.

It isn't basically just a clearing. It's more like an . . . opening. An opening with lush, green bushes, a floor covered in fallen, dead leaves, lots of really tall trees, all evenly spaced out, and exquisitely, beautiful flowers. I even got to see an azalea. 

In the middle sits an upraised block bench and a few feet away, facing the block bench and not too far from the clearing, is a small lake.

The lake is pretty much the best thing about the clearing. It's water moves with a steady flow, bringing with it a pleasant sound. And most of the time, the water looks so glassy and sparkly under the sun it's almost unreal. 

I'm allergic to certain flowers, yeah, but, I still enjoy going there nonetheless. 

It calms me. 

When I'm there, I don't think of anything else. Not mom's death. Not Jonathan's. Nothing. 

I just sit on the block bench and feel the mild summer sun and cool breeze on my face.

And to think I found it on the very first week I arrived at Charlottesville. 

Maybe I can get just one star. 

I'm almost at the clearing when I hear a voice which startles me, causing me to stop.

Actually, I hear someone singing. It's a female voice. 

I resume in my tracks, only this time more stealthily, the singing getting louder as I draw closer.

Finally, I get to the clearing. 

Sitting on the block bench, earpieces plugged in and eyes shut, is a girl with thick auburn curls.

She's singing Without Me by that oh-so-fucking-hot singer Halsey.

It's one of my favorite songs.

But, that's not it.

Her voice . . . draws me.

It's almost the best thing I've heard in the past one month. 

Just like what the clearing does to me, her voice prevents me from thinking of anything. Anything at all.

I just stare at her, drowning in the mesmerizing melody of her voice, taking my time to study every delicate feature of her face.

She has long, dark lashes, a small, straight nose, slight freckles and a dimpled chin. Her cheeks are plump but not so much that she looks weird or fat. 

A strand of her curly, auburn hair falls over her face and she brushes it away in one quick move, not breaking or pausing in her singing and not bothering to open her eyes either. 

I shift my weight to my left foot, still staring, when I step on a dead twig. 

Damn it.

It snaps and the girl stops singing abruptly (almost like the sound you hear when someone quickly turns off the DJ set) opening her eyes and taking off the earpieces.

At once, I'm drawn into huge, expressive, dark blue eyes. 

For a second or two, we just stare at each other, neither of us saying a word.

Then I break the silence.

"Hey, uh, what was that song just now?"

Dude, that's your intro? 

She doesn't reply, instead, she picks up something that had been sitting beside her.

Glasses. Her glasses.

She stuffs it, along with her earpieces, into the pink, open bookbag that's resting on her lap.

There are two books beside her too.

Hurriedly, she picks them up and shoves them into the bag, then stands up quickly, zipping up the bag and slipping it onto her shoulders. 

She starts walking away, still not saying a word to me.

Okay. Talk about weird.  

My eyes remain on her receding back. 

She's wearing a sleeveless, white top and denim shorts, topped with black boots. She has an almost slender figure. 

Taking in a deep breath, I look away from her. Then I notice a small, pink notebook on the floor a few inches from where she had just been standing. 

It must be hers. It probably fell out of her bag as she was slipping it on.

Snatching up the book, I start toward her. 

I can still see her white top, although she's moved a good distance away from me.

I increase my pace. 

"Hey!" I call as I draw close to her.

She probably doesn't hear me because she doesn't stop.

"Hey," I call again, close enough for her to, surely, hear me.

This time she stops and turns around to face me, but she doesn't really look at me. She looks anywhere but me.

Am I that unappealing? Jeez. 

"You dropped this," I say, holding the book out to her.

She looks at the book in my hand, then slowly, she retrieves it from me, the tips of her fingers brushing mine.

"Thanks," she says in a small voice. 

I sigh inwardly with relief at the realization that she isn't mute. 

Quickly, she turns away from me and walks off. I watch her go until I can't see her anymore. 

Who is she?

Now that I think of it, she's actually the first person I've talked to since I moved to Charlottesville. 

Except my dad, that is.

And I didn't get a name, not that I expected to, not from the way she got all worked up from my presence. 

Turning away from the direction she had gone, I walk back to the clearing and up to the block bench where she had been sitting. 

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the caller ID. 

It's my dad. I swipe up immediately. 

"Hey, dad," I say as soon as I put the phone to my ear.

"You said you'd be back in two." His voice is slightly muffled. 

He's been drinking again. I know it because I can hear the slur in his words. And it's not even up to an hour since I left.

"Dad, I told you no drinking. We had an agreement," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. 

There's silence, then sobbing. 

Is he crying?

"Dad," I breathe.

"Julian, I can't. I can't do this," he sniffles. 

I shut my eyes and run a finger against my forehead. 

"God, I killed her. I killed your mom. Why don't you hate me?" He sobs. 

"Dad, take it easy, okay?" I say, already walking away from the clearing, heading home.

"Please, come home, Julian. I don't want to be alone."

He said the words. 

"I'm on my way," I assure him, picking up my pace.

The line goes dead and I run the rest of the way back home.

Once I get to the house my dad had recently rented, I run up the porch steps, two at a time, and push the front door open.

"Dad!" I call as soon as I'm inside. 

There's no reply. 

He's not in the the large living room, so the next place I think to check is the kitchen. 

I take fast strides to the kitchen and stop at the doorway. 

There he is, sitting on a high kitchen stool, his head hung low and a Jack Daniels in his hand.

His shoulders heave so I guess he's still crying. 

"Dad," I call from the doorway. 

He looks up and at me.

My guess is correct. 

He's crying. 

His eyes look heavier and redder than before. There are tears in them. 

"You're back," he states.

I sigh, walking into the kitchen. "Yeah."

"That's better. I started to feel alone in here, you know," he murmurs and sniffs. 

I walk up to him and take the half empty bottle from his hand.

"Don't," he mutters.

Ignoring him, I walk over to the cupboard, dropping the Jack Daniels on the counter as I go. 

I open the cupboard and take out two glass cups. Shutting the cupboard, I empty the bottle into the two cups.

I drop one cup in front of dad and hold onto the other. Grabbing another stool, I sit beside him.

"What are you doing?" He asks looking at me through red, puffy eyes.

"Drinking. With you," I shrug then smile. "Now you have a drinking mate."

"You're not old enough to drink."

"I'm 18."

"Oh," he sighs, "fair point."

He picks up the glass, raises it to his lips and takes one long drag.

I drink too. 

As soon as the alcohol goes down my throat, a burning feeling explodes in my chest.

I welcome it. 

"I miss your mom," dad begins suddenly, "I miss her so bad."

"Me too."

"You know, that night—"

"Dad," I cut in. "Don't."

"I'm sorry."

He takes another long drag.

Then he hangs his head and resumes sobbing. 

I place a hand on his shoulder. 

"I can't," he sniffles, his jaw quivering. "Julian, I can't."

"That night there had been no cops. No cops to tell me to pull over because I'm driving drunk," he continues. 

I don't stop him this time. 

"Absolutely no goddamn cop. Then there was a car and . . . and I was going straight at it. I tried to brake but I didn't . . . remember how to. The car swerved away from me, only to ride straight into a ditch. I was drunk alright, but I knew it was my fault and I had to help whoever it had been. That's when I found out it was her. I called 911 but . . . they couldn't save her."

With a flick of his wrist, he pushes the glass cup away from him and breaks down completely. 

And here I was, thinking moving away from Waynesville where it all happened, would make everything better.

"I couldn't save her. They couldn't save her. No one could," he wails, running his hands through his dark brown hair, all traces of dignity gone. 

"And it's all my fault." He slips out of the kitchen chair and falls onto the floor, still weeping.

"I . . . I didn't get to say goodbye, Julian. I didn't get to tell her I was sorry, because I was."

He's a mess.

I kneel down beside him and take his hand.

"No." He pulls his hand away from mine.

"I want her back. I want her here. Please." Tears run down his face and his nose drips. 

He's a complete mess. 

He's been a complete mess ever since mom's death. And it's turning me into a mess too.

I lost someone too that night. Not just him. I lost my mom. I lost my best friend. On the same night, but still, I try to pull my shit together. 

"Dad!" I snap, "get yourself together, goddammit. I lost people that night too! But here I am trying my best to not go insane and all you do is drink and cry all day."

"No, no. You don't understand. I killed her. I did," he sobs, covering his face with his hands. "It was me."

"Stop it!" I yell. "Just stop it, okay? This isn't regret! This is self pity. I'm trying not to think about it. Trying to stay sane. I lost my mom and best friend on the same night. Do you know what that did to me? Everyday, I wake up knowing I'm never going to see mom or Jonathan ever again, but you don't see me wallowing in the pity party. I can't do this on my own, dad. I need you. I need the old you. Please. Plea-"

My voice breaks and I realize I'm crying.

My blurry vision and the hot streaks of tears on my face tell me so. 

"Please, dad," I say, willing the tears to go away but they won't. "Please. I need the old you back."

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wish I could just . . . bring her back."

"I'm sorry," he repeats. 

Then he reaches for my hand, squeezes and let go. 

"I'm so sorry."

Wiping away the tears on my face, I stand up.

I can't remember the last time I cried. Except when I heard mom and Jonathan were dead, that is. 

It feels good, you know. It actually feels good to cry sometimes.

I brush away my hair from my face then stretch my hand out to my dad.

He looks up at me then takes my hand and I help get him off the floor.

He staggers and has to lean into me for support. 

"Where are we going?" He mumbles as we leave the kitchen. 

"You're going to bed," I provide, heading up the stairs with him.

"I feel like shit."

"Why do you think I told you no drinking?"

He chuckles. 

Or maybe its just my imagination. 

Getting to his room, I lay him down on the bed and take off his shoes, then I pull the duvet higher up his chest.

I'm about to leave the room when he speaks up. 

"Julian?"

"Yeah?" I turn towards him.

"Tomorrow's going to be better, right?" He asks, staring at me through bloodshot, grey eyes.

I stare back at him for a while. Then I smile. 

"Yeah. Definitely. Tomorrow will be better."

He turns over on his side.

"Sleep tight," I tell him. 

He mumbles inaudibly and I leave the room, shutting the door behind me. 

Tomorrow will be better. 

________________________________________________

Hello!

Thea comes at you once more! :)

What do you think of this first chapter?

Catching or boring?

Alright, Bye!😇❤😈

Love,

Cynthia :')