Today

You’re awake. 

Why?

You are in your room. It’s dark. No signs of the sun peeking over the horizon. You reach for your phone to check the time, but then you hear it. The voices echoing through the hallway. 

Mama. Pops. 

Mother. Father.

It must be late. Still today. Not tomorrow.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to go back to sleep. If you fall asleep now, did it really happen? 

It was part of a dream. 

A nightmare. 

Right?

It doesn’t work. Your eyes open on their own accord, and you notice the touch of light leaking in from the corner streetlamp. You can’t not notice it. You can’t pretend. 

Are the voices getting louder? You’re not sure. It might just be your ears reaching out, tempting you to catch a word or two. 

And now your mind is alert.

Speeding up. 

Faster.

Faster. 

What are they saying? What is it about? You? No. It’s probably about the lawn chairs your father forgot to put away before the rain that afternoon, even though your mother asked him to do it five times. The money your mother spent on her hair at that fancy salon. Why can’t she just go to the cheap place like everyone else in the family? 

That must be it. That’s all. Nothing more to hear.

Your foot slips out from under the covers but hesitates. It’s cold out there. Don’t you want to stay in bed? It will keep you snuggled up and warm. Your foot worms its way out, reaching the ground, and the rest of your body moves with it. There’s too much momentum. It’s too late to turn back. 

The first step is uncertain, nervous. What if they hear you? Will they be mad? Will you be grounded for eavesdropping? Will they care?

Your next steps grow confident, until your toe slams into the corner of the math textbook you left laying on the ground. You threw it there once you finished the three pages of homework your teacher gave you. It felt like a reward, celebration of completion. You regret it now. 

You hold back the yelp your brain wants you to release. Your shoulders tense. Your throat constricts. You swallow the sound, return it to whence it came.

One toe wiggles. The next. They are still there, still intact. Nothing broken. 

When you’re ready to move again, you do it with caution. Your foot reaches out. Tap. Tap. Tap. No obstructions. 

You stop at the door, hold your breath. Their voices are louder here. You can almost make out the words, but it’s not enough.

The doorknob is cold under your hand. You twist it slowly, silently. Your palms are beginning to sweat, threatening to interrupt your covert mission. When the latch retracts, you pull the door back centimeter by centimeter. 

Bright light beams into your room, a glowing beacon searching out the darkness beyond. Your eyes twitch from the sudden change. 

As you prepare to gently guide the doorknob back to its stationary position, you mess up. The sweat has glazed the handle and you release it all at once. The latch shoots out with a mechanical click.

You freeze. 

Your heart is beating. 

Faster. 

Faster. 

It’s pounding, beating in your ears. It feels like it might explode out of your chest. 

But you hear it. Their conversation in full. Their words spiral up the staircase to your doorway into your ear.

‘That is not what I said. You know that’s not what I said.’

‘That’s exactly what you said.’

‘That’s what you heard. Those are two different things.’

You’re too late. They are already past the ‘why’ part. It’s on to the accusations and then the end. It’s still too early to know if they will find a resolution.

Your eyes scan the hallway walls. You notice a new piece of artwork your mother put up over the weekend. She asked you if you liked it. At the time, you just nodded. You didn’t really care, still don’t really. 

As their words bellow on in the background, your eyes examine the art. It’s a forest, you think. There are thin trees hovering over a small creek. You’re not sure why your mother bought it. You think she said she got it at a garage sale.

You go to look away but notice the ripples in the water. Patches of sunlight on the grass. You close your eyes, and the painting is there. 

In your mind. 

You can almost feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. Hear the babbling of the water. There are rabbits and chipmunks frolicking amongst the trees.

You imagine yourself in the forest. You take a backpack full of comics and snacks. Your phone is back home on its charger. You don’t need it where you’re going. You find a place just far enough away from the water, place a blanket on the ground. You do not intend on leaving until you have finished reading or eating, whichever one comes first.

Opening your eyes, there’s a moment when your mind can’t quite piece together the reality of where you are. 

You are in your home. You are in your room.

You are listening to your parents’ conversation. If you ask about it in the morning, they will call it nothing more than a disagreement. It is reaching the end. Their voices still carry, but they aren’t so loud. You have to strain your ears, even here with the door cracked open to catch the final words. 

‘I don’t think I can do this anymore.’

You close your eyes, but you cannot see the forest. Nothing but the cold chill of the AC runs against your arms. You can’t hear the water trickling down the stream. There are no rabbits or chipmunks. No comics or snacks. 

When you open your eyes, you don’t look at the painting again. You stare at the ground while you slowly twist the doorknob and push the door back in place.