Crescent (Old Version)

+ Part 12 +

Music had always been Rosie's first language. She'd learned to play the piano before she learned her first words.

There was a piano in the study to the by the stairs where I used to watch my mother play scales with Rosie in her lap. Mom's voice was beautiful, whimsical and loud. When she sang, her voice filled the entire house.

Rosie learned to play her favorite songs, and they'd sing and play side-by-side after dinner most nights. My dad would be sitting on the sofa watching them, tapping his foot, humming as he watched his wife sing and clap and dance while Rosie read songs from her music book.

I'd tried to sing like Mom once. I tried to learn the scales like Rosie had. But singing and dancing and playing musical instruments was a language I felt I could never learn. I yearned for different things. Most of the time, I didn't even know what those things were. At one point, it had been painting. Drawing. Mom and Dad kept my pictures hanging on the fridge for a time. But, I grew out of arts- or more, I quit trying so hard to be my mother's daughter. 

I found I'd never felt more confident than I did when my father first put a gun in my hand. 

The first thing he'd shown me how to do was clean it. I'd spent a week learning how to take the metal contraption apart, how to put it back together. How to lubricate the inner mechanisms. How to load it with silver bullets. How to aim it and never miss. 

We were at the dinner table one night. He was showing me a rifle that he kept locked away in the safe in my parents room when there was a knock at the front door. 

My parents didn't tend to keep friends. I sure as hell didn't have any. And, the post man never come this late at night. My eyes went wide as my dad stood, carefully hid the components of the gun beneath a hatch built into the dining table, and crept toward the door. 

"Stay back, kid," he whispered to me, and I remained in my seat as my dad looked through the peephole in the door. He opened the door a crack. "Can I help you officer?"

A woman's voice replied, and from the dark outside on our porch, I saw a flashlight shine inside: "Good evening. We're checking the houses on the block to see if anyone's seen or heard anything. We got a call about an animal attack down the street."

No one else seemed to notice when my dad was nervous. But, I knew from the way his back stiffened and the way he shouldered the door closed just a crack that he was irked. "Animal attack? No, we haven't seen anything. Is everyone alright?"

"Everyone's- fine. We're just doing our part and checking in. You guys have a good night." I heard their footsteps retreat down the front steps.

"You too." The door clicked shut. Dad slid the lock into place and turned back toward me.

"What was it?" I asked.

He closed the hatch in the table completely and motioned for me to go upstairs. "Go get your mom, and I want you to go to bed."

"But, Dad-"

"Now, Brenna."

I did as he said, dragging my feet as I saw my dad push the curtain aside and peer through the front window. Mom had just put Rosie in her crib, and with one last look at him, I went upstairs to get her.

When they'd both disappeared downstairs into the kitchen, I listened from my spot at the top of the stairs. It was just hidden enough that I could barely hear their whispers on the other side of the wall. 

"There was a scout in town today. He was wearing court-colors. The police just came by too. Asking about an animal attack down the street," my father murmured.