The Leading of Paper Cranes

Chapter 6: Paper Thin

Noise, a sound that used to cure me of my timidness is becoming an unneeded drug. My mom seems to be yelling into my ear telling me how I should be a better kid. It goes through one ear and out the other.

"This is absurd!" She keeps yelling into my ear as if it was a vast cave in which a child would scream to hear it echo back. "Give it to me, give me the reason you killed this girl."

"I didn't kill her," I stare back with disgust, then with guilt, then with seriousness. "All I did was find her in the middle of the hallway, lying dead," I pause to find my bearings, "with no one aiding her."

She rolls her eyes, then my father turns into the kitchen. "If you won't tell us the truth, you're grounded."

"Go ahead, I insist." I treat them as if I'm their equal. "Would be nice to spend some time alone and not in any of your business."

My mother steps up, "Are you talking back to us? You're grounded child."

"A prison is only hell to the innocent, it's a game for the guilty." I realize what I say and realize, I realize it makes no sense.

"Oh," My father talks to me as if he is a child showing that he is right. "You're admitting you killed her?"

"When did I say mourning for people, even strangers, was a game?"

"Go to your room!"

"Gladly."

I hear them arguing downstairs. It's like the sound of an operatic choir, however their out of tune and singing out of order. I feel like I'm drowning in my own imaginary tears. I smack my bed multiple times, my hand bouncing back with the same force every time. I want to throw my phone, I want to throw everything across my room. I scour for anything, anything to release my anger on. I grab the first "paper crane" Maveah gave to me and I crush it with my own two hands. I stare at the outcome with sadness and determination.

I don't destroy my room, I need to stay calm to seem sane. There seems to be a snowstorm outside, opposite of sane, but it's naturally beautiful. Flurries of snow cover every building, every streetlight. It's an art. When it calms down it becomes a serene snowfall. Everything blows softly in the wind. The howls of the wind become soft whispers which just match the scene. This is why I like Winter. It's a beautiful picture which paints itself. A composer that writes it's own music. A soft spoken singer hushing the melody as if it sung it it's whole life. It's an artist which can depict any emotion. An angered snowstorm, a sad snow drift melancholically traversing the air, a happy clear day in which the clouds are gone and the sun blinds your eyes.

My mom opens the door. "Hey sweetie, come down for dinner." She sweetly smiles at me as if nothing happened.

"Okay, give me a second." I look at her with a smile. I feel as if I am lying through my teeth and my smile.

This is the reason why I hate summer, it's so bright and happy, and it stays that way. It feels like a ruse, so 1-dimensional. There are no changes between the weather, and even if it does rain it's a joyous sadness. It feels like I lie when I declare my favourite season is summer. Ironic in reality.

The dinner table is silent, not a single sound could be heard, not even the chewing of my parents or myself. It feels as if the universal volume was knocked down, lowered or broken.

"Roland, how are you feeling now?" I look up to see my mom.

I become petrified of answering even if I do. "Okay."

My father decides to jump in, "So, give me an explanation. I need it now."

This could also be why Winter and Summer aren't my favourite seasons. Autumn is my favourite. Both Winter and Summer, they both incite fear upon people. A torrential snowfall can bury people cruelly, the simple sun can create extraneous heat which can melt bones without protection. Not to mention, they do it as quick as a snap, no patience needed.

I respond scared, "I sadly can not give that to you at the moment.". I feel guilty that I can't give an answer for something that isn't definite. "If you're going to keep asking me for reasons that aren't true, and I'll have to lie just to make you happy, then I'll simply eat my food upstairs.". I head upstairs in a flash with a plate of roast beef and rice in my hands.

"Roland! You get back here!" My father yells at me like a madman. My mother has to hold him back so that he doesn't kill me.

Many cars don't come through our neighbourhood, at least by our house anyways. We live at the end of the street, in which it's a court. The roads are covered in snow, and yet this is the day in which I see the most amount of cars pass by my window. Could be a party for someone's birthday, celebratory events for an early Christmas or maybe simply just a meeting. The roast beef is good, but cold from leaving it out. The rice is always good, wish it was fried rice in all honesty, but I can't be picky.

It's 11:31, I finally get ready for bed after traversing the desolate plain of my mind. I close my eyes and try to clear my thoughts of guilt and "grief". I hear my door creak open.

"So, I gave you time, what's your motive?" My father silently yelled into my ear. He waits pressed and somewhat frustrated.

I "wake up" faking my grogginess. "Can you let me sleep?"

"You wanted time, did you not?"

"It's still too soon, grab some patience and save it in your piggy bank."

He leaves unamused and angrily. I sleep for the next day, all in hopes that these past few months are all just a dream. All in hopes for them to sit at the bottom of the steps waiting for my arrival.