Where Dreams Lay

[two]

[two] "written in these walls are the stories that I can't explain" -one direction

So far it has been an okay day, nothing too special or out-of-the ordinary. I go to school, avoid certain people, do work and go back home. So when Mom gets home at about five, she'll no doubt ask me how my day was, if anything exciting happened, or if I got any grades back. My answer would be: my day was fine, nothing new, and for today . . . no new grades.

    I walk up to the porch of my house, and fumble for my keys. As soon as the door makes even the slightest creak open, I can hear them starting already.

    "Luke give it back!"

    "Not until you say the magic word, Casey!"

    "Please?"

    " . . . NOPE!"

   I step into the living room and see Casey jumping up and down, trying to grab her doll from Luke's high arms. Immediately, she screams my name and runs towards me.

  "Paris, can you pretty please with a cherry on top," she starts sweetly, with that high, childish voice she owns, "get Luke to give me back my dolly!!" then she ends it with a growling yell. Yup, that's the Casey I know and love.

  "Nu-uh! She took my soccer ball and used it to play with Barbie's!" Luke says back, clearly angry as usual.

   "But LUKE—"

   "Okay I've had enough," I say, breaking the fight, "Luke give it back, and Casey give Luke his ball back."

    Casey puts on her pouty face, "But Paris . . ."

    "Don't make me tell you again Casey! What would mommy say to you?" I demand.

    She rolls her little brown eyes and walks back towards Luke, who hands her the doll, in exchange for his soccer ball. Ugh, first world problems over here.

   Just then, our Nanny—Margret—walks into the room, looking surprised.

     "Oh, Paris, honey . . . your home. I knew I heard something." She says walking further into the living room.

    I sigh and do the same, "Yeah, well thanks for taking care of these two. We'll see you tomorrow."

    "Yes, for sure . . . but can you be a dear and tell your parents that I would like to speak with them? Tomorrow. " She bends down while telling me this, grabbing her shoulder bag into her arms.

    "Um, yes of course. I'll make sure to let them know." I respond with a slight smile.

    She smiles back, her black bangs covering her light eyes.

    Margret leaves five minutes later, after giving Casey many hugs and kisses. Casey is literally in love with this woman, so when she has to go, it takes a while for her to literally step out of our house.

    Realizing that there's someone missing, I look at Luke and question, "Where's Joey?"

   Luke continues playing with his ball when he answers me, not bothering to glance my way, "He's been sleeping since we got home. School tires him out I guess."

    I nod in agreement, yes; I forgot that Joey sometimes still takes naps in the afternoon. That poor kid possibly gets drama in kinder-garden every day. His teacher says that he can be fairly dramatic. I can defiantly see that being the case.

   Since I have homework to do, I set up Luke with his—since he never does it on his own—and have Casey doing some coloring pages. My afternoons are usually like this; I get home, try to do some work while babysitting these monsters my parents call lovely children, and hope I get some time to myself before Mom comes home.

   Thankfully, about forty-five minutes later, the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing echoes in our house. At the sheer moment, Joey comes down the stairs and is the first one to jump into her arms, which are being occupied with her huge purse and work things. 

    Casey runs down the hall and her squeal of "Mommy!" rings in my ears. She's always had a loud, high-pitched voice.

   Mom makes her way into the kitchen, where Luke and I are focusing on homework.

   "Hello my lovelies, how was everyone's day?"

    I mumble a 'hi' back, ignoring her question, hoping she won't force an answer out of me.

    "Luke, I see you're doing your homework all by yourself. Very good . . ." Mom takes a seat beside me, and across from Luke, who's smiling like an idiot right now. 

    She turns her body top face me, and leans her elbows on out kitchen table, "I suppose the answer to my question for you is 'it was fine' or 'nothing special, I guess' Am I right, Paris?"

    I hesitate for a moment, "Uh-yeah I guess you got it right on. Congrats mom . . ."

    She sighs and breaks our gaze, "That's what I thought."

   I decide to go up to my room and finish my homework. Since mom is home now, I can leave the troublemakers for her to handle, and get some time alone. 

   When I walk in my bedroom, the light smell of vanilla reaches my nose, and travels all around my body, making me feel warm and pleasant. Since it's the smallest room in the house—Mom insisted on Luke and Joey sharing a room, and Casey getting her own—it tends to smell when I forget to open the window. I as a matter of fact sigh when I notice how much of a mess I made over the course of a week. There's clothes laid on my bed, spreading across the whole backside of my double, and my little old desk has papers scattered to the point where I can't even see the light brown colored wood it owns. I've never been a neat freak, but I did like my room somewhat organized.

    My feet find their way to my desk chair—a plastic white seat with an arched back from Ikea—and I sit down, relaxing for the first time today.

   Luke is having trouble on his math. I can hear it from downstairs: the anger the will never overcome, the sound of mom trying to calm him down, and try to answer the question. I strive to focus them out of my head and face my desk; eyeing the mess I've made this week.

   "So it looks like I have rough drafts of my assignments . . ." I mumble to myself while flipping through the papers, " . . . and some homework from—what! A month ago?"

   Yeah, maybe I need to be a lot more organized.

    My eyes swiftly make their way towards the left side of the headboard on my desk. A picture is sitting there, making memories come back to me, like I just flipped through a photo album from eight years ago.

    It's me: as a petite innocent girl, sitting next to a woman known to me as mom.

    My smile is huge. I'm grinning from ear to ear, clearly overjoyed about something.

    What happened on that day again? That made me hold my mother close, and smile like I've just won a million bucks? Before I even think about the question more deeply, something familiar catches my eye: a charm bracelet, one that is a tad too big for my seven year old wrist. One that is linked together with a tiny Eiffel tower—just like my mother is with me; holding her only baby, and grinning as she pressed her check against mine.

    I look at my left wrist. Sitting on it, with less than a centimeter of chain hanging, is that same bracelet. It still holds one charm, a memento that I will never forget the meaning of.

    I remember that day: it was the moment of my life that I discovered what my dream was. And there's much more to it than just a simple charm, representing a city across the globe. There's a whole back-story to that day, that bracelet, that light shining in our eyes. A back-story I'm still trying to figure out.

 🌙.....🌙 

Lyric Video-One Direction's Story of my Life 

(--->for all you One Directioners . . . who are probably crying your eyes out because of Zayn!)