Pain 2: Him (H.S)

Chapter 63

"Home already?" Alan, bags heavy and dark under his crystal eyes, welcomes us with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, and a piece of paper in his other.

"Already? It's been almost six hours." I'm exhausted but she honestly isn't. All day we've been on our feet and I practically begged and pleaded for us to leave yet she still has the energy to walk and shop some more. I don't understand.

"It actually felt longer, to be quite honest," he sighs shutting his weary eyes for moment of rest, and opens them only wanting to close them again, "I've never read so many shitty papers in my life. I don't know where I went wrong."

"Applying to be a teacher is where you went wrong." I say placing all of the bags beside the couch to ease the sore the plastic has left on my palms, "what type of essay is that?" Mom laughs and wobbles her way up the steps, smiling to herself as if she just witnessed the second coming of Jesus, and he sets his cup on the coffee table.

"Everyone had to write a page about their ambitions and goals in life and what their plans are after high school. Some were actually good, some were hopeful and some were difficult. One even told me he wants to become the cities best trapper." His head shamefully shakes towards the possible future Al Capone, and I'm guessing the paper in his hand belongs to him because every time he even glances at it, he cringes.

"Ah, teenagers. Such hooligans." I mock his irritation and he snorts. "I don't remember this."

"I assigned it yesterday while you were out. You need to get it done, by the way or else you'll get a zero." He informs and the second I fall onto the soft, cozy cushions of my couch, I feel the relaxation I've been needing all day.

"Can't you just give me an A? I'm your daughter, help me out."

"These are supposed to go in your portfolios so no. Don't be lazy, it's just a page. If you can text your boyfriend twenty-four seven, I'm pretty sure this is nothing more than a piece of cake for you." He raises a brow gaining an over exaggerated eye roll. It's either him or my mom who has to bring Harry up one way or another. They always seem to find a way to link him into every single thing I do and say. "Plus, you're an outstanding writer. I love reading your work."

"Right," I scoff, "you just like assigning assignments that have to do with things you want to know that I don't want to tell you. You're not slick."

"Well now," he sits up showcasing his pearly teeth behind his wide smile, "we have our very own Sherlock living right in our house. Figuring out my schemes and plans--smart one you are." He wiggles his eyebrows knowing how annoyed I get with his sarcasm.

"Oh, ha-ha, so funny."

"I'm just messing with you." The hand covered in pen marks places the sheet of paper on his lap, and groaning like my grandfather, he sits back and throws his arm around my neck. Kissing my temple where I can smell the fresh coffee beans, he rests his head against mine. "I'm exhausted." His eyes close peacefully and the gentle exhale of a longs day work finds it's release and just by the weight adding on to my head, I can tell he's already falling asleep.

"Did you eat?" I sound like my mother.

"I did." He replies wearily. The stillness of the house is quite gratifying, and being away from all the chatter and applause of children's voices seeping through my ear drums makes me grateful that I can come home to absolute silence. But although my surroundings are this way, my mind isn't. It's in his usual phase; too many jumbled thoughts I can't disentangle. Typical thoughts, old worries, just the same shit.

"Maybe you should go upstairs." In my attempt to remove myself from him, he begins to lightly snore where I'm left frozen so that my movement won't wake him. Pressing my back to the couch, I slide my body away, grabbing a pillow to replace my head and hold it against the back cushion. He has always been an easy sleeper. He will fall asleep anywhere no matter where we are.