Short Story 2

Here's a short story I wrote at 3 in the morning on the 15th.

I was given this picture and told to write something.

I woke in the middle of the night to see a light snowfall outside my window. The thick flakes settled lightly across the front lawn. There was a sort of morbidity to it. The way such beautiful, delicate things disappeared into nothing as they made contact with the grass. I look away for a few moments to glance at my phone- a message. “Happy Anniversary! Love you! XOXO”  Why do we take time out of our lives to celebrate days like these? I can’t bring myself to reply as it would just add onto my long list of lies. What is love,really? Just reading the four-letter word is enough to send a chill down my spine. It’s lost it’s meaning to me over the years. Now it’s just a reminder of how often I’ve been lied to and vice-versa. I put my phone on the night stand before hopping onto the bed. The floorboards creak and I fear that Mother might hear. Ha. I forgot again. Mother isn’t in the room next door anymore. She’s not here. She’s gone. Forever. She disappeared last winter. She didn’t even leave a note, just packed up everything and walked out. I wish she’d at least said goodbye. Or maybe she wouldn’t have been able to leave if she tried. I know I wouldn’t have been able to leave my 15-year old daughter and 18-year old son all by themselves without a word. But who could leave? The acceptance sunk in sooner than I thought it would. I feel nothing towards her now. I don’t hate her for leaving or sympathize her for what she must have been facing. But leaving us here in Lameville Central- also known as Nettatown, that’s something I’ll never forgive her for. These people look at my brother, Liam and I like  we’re vermin. That’s all thanks to my wonderful Mother. They’ll never accept us here. We’re just a couple of orphaned brats in their eyes. A time ticking bomb of responsibility that is bound to explode in one of their hands sooner or later. But I won’t give them that pleasure of handing us over to foster care the next day, feigning ignorance to our ‘terrible situation’. It’s not like Dad’s any better. He’s somewhere in Egypt running after some stupid fossil expedition. I doubt he even remembers our names anymore. He called me Lucy last time we spoke. I literally had to scream over his rant, “My name is Shelby! Don’t you remember your own daughter’s name? You named me after your grandmother for Pete’s sake” But I must give him credit for at least remembering the name of my cat. Oh that’s right, she died two years ago as he was reversing his stupid Volkswagen into the garage. I nearly lost it when he asked me to donate it to his friend, the taxidermist. The phone starts vibrating against the wood. I grab it before the sound wakes Liam. He’d see my face and tell me to talk it out again. Am I the only who lacks any sort of emotion in this house? I peer out into the yard to see a thick layer of snow over everything. It covers every inch of the street. I suddenly feel like getting out of here. I can’t stand these four walls anymore. I grab my red coat and fur boots in the darkness before leaving the house. The note I left on the fridge is reassurance that nothing happened to me. That I didn’t suddenly disappear into the night to never come back. I walk down the icy sidewalk towards the high school. I don’t really know where I want to go. Hopefully, I’ll just keep walking and before I know it, I’ll be out of this godforsaken town. I pull my Ipod out of my pocket. I’d stuffed it in there before church last Sunday. The elderly woman seated in front of us barely noticed me singing along to Thrift Shop as they said they’re prayers. The boy sitting next to me gave me a pointed glare before I’d finished with ‘I look incredible! Amen!’. He would’ve burst into laughter if it hadn’t been for the well-deserved flick I’d delivered to his forehead. I stop in my tracks as I see movement in the trees. Someone’s following me. What do you do in these situations? I’ve never been stalked before. I dig around in my pocket for my phone. Shoot! I left it at the house. He’s coming closer now. God, help me. I turn around and deliver a square punch to his face. He dodges as he grabs my arm. I get ready to scream as loud as possible. I hope someone hears me. ‘Hold on there! Why are you hitting me Shelby?!’, he says with a heavy British accent. ‘Who the hell are you?!’, I exclaim. ‘First, you promise not to hit me!’, he says. 

I can’t help but laugh at his accent. I pull my hand from his grasp before falling into the grass laughing. He stands there with such a bewildered expression on his face with his hands hanging by his side. He looks somewhat like a lost puppy. As I bury my face in my hands to control myself, he plops down next to me. “Why do I always find the weird ones?”, he says.