Hurricane

two

 

“Always hard to see past the surface, when it looks so perfect

But our eyes will disguise dirt on purpose.”

-The Neighbourhood

♦

        “Mother!” I yelled as I entered the house, throwing down my keys on the closest bookshelf. Our house wasn’t large, just three rooms and two bathrooms. My room was the only thing on the second floor, which I was thankful for. We also have a garage but my mom decided to turn it into an art room. 

         “I’m home!” I walked through the kitchen, grabbing a granola bar off the counter as I went by, and headed straight to the art room, where I knew my mother was waiting. There’s not even a door, just lots of strings of beads cascading from the top of the door way.

                “Hello lovie,” My mother greeted as I entered the room, not turning around. She dipped her fingers in paint on a little board she held in her hand, before smearing it on the half untouched canvas.

                My mom isn’t exactly classified as a ‘hippy’ but you may as well call her that. She’s real spirited and organic and likes to be ‘at peace’ a lot. My mom doesn’t have an actual job; she just paints in our converted garage and sells the ones she isn’t too attached to. She’s really good at what she does though, and if she’s happy sitting in a muggy old garage, I’m cool with that.

                “How was work?” He turned to look at me, her blonde hair wrapped in a messy bun atop her head. My mother was a skinny woman, due to her strange all veggie and fruit diet. She always had some sort of color on her; she never seems to wash all the paint off. Her hazel eyes looked a bit more tired than usual, but I didn’t think much of it. My own eyes are a dark brown, which we’re guessing came from my father.

My mom isn’t some whore who just hooked up with some guy in her teens. She told me she met my dad in her twenties at a concert and they simply fell in love. They dated for a few years, but I came along, and my dad decided he just wasn’t ready for that responsibility. My mom is quite a push over really, so she just let him walk out the door, and never thought of him again. I’m proud to hear she never ran after him, or begged him for money when things got rough. She told me the Westcott’s were strong women who just didn’t need a man.

                “Fine.” I left it short, but not cold. She squinted at me, before scoffing. Turning back to her canvas, she dipped her finger in the red and brown paint. “I feel that something else happened.”I rolled my eyes. “Mother.” I whined.

                “Nope,” She cut me off. “I think something else happened on this fine day. Your aura is giving that type of vibe to me.” She raised her hands then, making a motion and sniffing the air, as if she could feel it then.

                “Mom, my aura is giving off no vibes.” I mocked, ripping the wrapper off my granola bar. “Oh, no honey,” she mused “It most definitely is.” I sighed, and took a seat in the old beat up couch in the corner of the room.

                “Tell me what happened.” She insisted, her hazel eyes finding their way to my own, making it seem like she could see through me. As if no matter what I told her she could somehow find the actual truth by looking in my eyes.

                “We were just getting ready to close up when some boy came in and asked for a black coffee.” I said, thinking back to how gross it seemed. She nodded, signaling for me to continue, while turning her head and frowning at something on the canvas.