failed attempts to fly

silence strikes like a hurricane

If there were a gold medal for being in the same spot in bed without moving, maybe I'd place first. That's a lie because the movement is frequent. Shuffling side to side, switching plushies used as pillows, when one of them deflates from my head's weight.

The window, with the black-out curtains, failed at stopping the sun ray from piercing through.

You had one job, curtains, and you can't do it well. Hehe, like me.

My skin accepts the rays, the sweet shine of vitamin D from the tiny sliver of light. Warms my skin as my breathing steadies.

For some reason, lying still feels like I'm running a full fucking marathon. Uneven breathing, heart racing.

I can't breathe.

It would be better if I were running, moving, or doing anything other than a failed attempt to exist.

I feel hot. But too weak to move from the window. I'm exhausted.

How does anyone just lay around and fall asleep?

What is the word "relaxed" never heard of it?

It's hard to explain, but it's like I can sense a shift in emotions. I can almost feel other people's anxieties mixing with mine, shifting in the air. Almost as if I was a ticking time bomb of emotions, paralyzed from too many feelings.

And right now, there is an extra gloominess in the air, mixed with anger and dissatisfaction.

And footsteps.

Loud footsteps make a v line straight to my room.

"Schuyler Rin." The voice specializes in sounding disappointed.

"Yes, what." It was not an invitation to open the door, but does he ever care?

Nope.

"Not greeting me at the airport is one thing, but not greeting me at the door? Why did I have to have such a disrespectful daughter." Usually, people keep their insults in their heads. But not father. He speaks to them openly, loudly.

"I did not know you'd come here," I answer honestly. I had a hunch, but I wished, I hoped, that it wouldn't happen.

I don't think I've ever seen him without a suit. Always styled his black hair into a slicked-back do. But these days, there's more grey sprinkled in his hair. His face wrinkled from the permanent scowl expression. And those eyes, turquoise and dull, looking straight through me with disgust.

Rio is his spitting fucking imagine. A painful reminder about how similar they are. Except for the muscle mass, Rio has him beat on that one.

"Were you planning on laying in bed all day?"

"Yes. I'm tired." Minimal words I speak. Leave me alone.

"How can you be tired? You haven't even moved all fucking day."
"I don't know..."
"Did Rio have his dinner yet?"
"I don't know..."
"You never fucking know anything, do you?"

But that's the thing, isn't it? "I don't know." Better than saying, "if I move, I might pass out from the itching sensation coursing through my veins at the idea of doing anything other than this." Or "Rio is a full functioning member of society. For your information, he is very capable of making himself dinner. You'd know that if you paid attention to your fucking children. So leave me the fuck alone."

But all of that is too many words, so "I don't know" it is.

"You're so fucking usele-"

"Hey, dad, we should grab some dinner, yeah?" Rio's voice interrupts my internal screaming and the dizzy spell coming on.