Beautiful Boy

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amara haven

I counted the days, the 28 days Nicolas was in rehab.

And I was so happy to hear that he successfully made it through and wanted to continue at the Half-way House.

I was proud of him, even though he didn't know.

And I hated every minute of being on the outside.

I wanted nothing more than to be by his side, to help him with his struggles.

"Amara, breakfast." A knock on my door and my Father's voice took me from my trance.

I sighed, staring at the wall, I'd barely slept last night.

I was too busy sketching, and thinking about Nicolas.

"Amara," Dad yelled from downstairs.

I ignored him once again, staring at the wall across from me.

I was laid in my bed, my sketchbook next to me.

I closed my eyes and slowly drifted to a light sleep.

"Did you draw this?"

Dad had entered my room, and, I suppose, looked at my sketchbook.

"Mhm," I murmured.

"Amara, this is amazing," he said.

"Mhm," I replied.

"How did you learn to draw like this?" He asked.

"Nic taught me," I muttered.

"You're going to be late for school, kitten, you need to get up," he said, sitting down next to my limp body.

"Can I stay home, please?" I pleaded, "I didn't sleep well."

"For sure, love," he kissed my head before getting up.

I was a bit surprised that he'd agreed so quickly, but then I felt as though he was probably pitying me.

I closed my eyes and drifted off.

~

"Ammy." I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Hm?" I asked, blinking away the ray of sun from my window.

"Sit up, honey," Dad said.

I rubbed my eyes and moved myself against the headboard.

"Is that Nic's shirt?" He asked, handing me a little tray of food.

"Probably," I shrugged.

The tray consisted of pancakes, fruit, hashbrowns and bacon.

He chuckled softly, "There's coffee here," he motioned to my side table. "Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

I nodded before realising that he was supposed to be at work.

"Don't you have work today?" I asked, wondering why he was at home.

"I took the day off. So I can take care of you," he replied.

"I'm 18, dad, you don't have to look after me," I muttered.

"Speaking of, I got an email about your graduation in June," he smiled, "I'm so proud of you."

"Dad," I groaned, facepalming.

"What?" He defended, "You're my oldest, and between us, my favourite. I have to be proud of you. And besides, honey, you had so many bumps in the road, but you went through not letting it affect school. You were picked on, you were excluded, you have severe anxiety, your best friend left you, and yet you still have perfect grades and near-perfect attendance. What's not to be proud of in all of that?"