Umbrellas.

Chapter 2: Fire.

Drawing the curtains, my legs can no longer hold the weight of my body; I retreat once more to the comfort of the sofa. The time is 8.48. I conclude the idea weighing down my mind- perhaps I could return to school, ask the girl's name and see my councillor, (perhaps not the last one) but alas, time has moved on and it is too late. Tracing the veins on my hands and wrist, I ponder the plausible activities today could consist of- procrastination seems like an attractive choice, it seems a day of achieving nothing is no different to what any other insufferable human on the planet will be doing. Education for jobs, jobs for money, money for possessions. We are the only animal to participate in such a futile cycle. But yet, we perceive purpose in what we do. I believe just to reassure our selves that we are not wasting our time on Earth. But all time is wasted- some time is wasted wisely.

I scavenge for my Nintendo DS which has slipped underneath the satin cushions and open it, only to find the battery is dead. Damn. I fumble through my tattered rucksack looking for the charger and proceed in plugging it clumsily into the socket. Flicking the switch- two hours pass unnoticed by me. I know I would have spent more time indulging on my gaming device if it wasn't for the loss of power; lights flicker and die sending sharp shivers down my spine. I stagger to the kitchen reaching for the matches, my hands stroking empty bottles in my moment of utter blindness. I strike the first match. A flame hisses and bursts out of it. I curse as the flames dance and lick my fingers shooting sharp pains up my hands causing my wrists to cramp. As I flex them in the light the scars on the back of my arms become pronounced, ashen against my freckled skin, I flinch at the ugly sight and I blow out the flame. I strike the second match, my hands quivering and shivering I carry the new flame to the tea lights. I allow the wicks to catch and then shake out the flame. I light the third match in pure admiration. I think that fire is beautiful; I am not scared by it merely intimidated at most. I have a great respect for something that begins so small with the capacity to do so much harm and yet can be extinguished with one single sigh of breath.

The power remains off for some time. I allow myself to make a sandwich with the remaining salad in the fridge, persuading myself that I am being healthy- entirely aware of the lavishing of butter coating the thick bread! I allow myself to settle once more. I am bored in my own company today; this is extraordinarily unlike me as I am a complete introvert, yet I know what is allowing my mind to wander, I have never been so mesmerised by a single person which explains my surprise. I hear shuffling from above me. I am quite startled by this, I forgot my Dad was still at home, although he has not left the house for many weeks and then only to post a letter. I can smell the musky odour exuding from his bedroom, as soon as the door opens the mixture of tobacco and stale sweat wafts downstairs. I just hope he is sober. I hear heavy footfall as he comes down the stairs and watch him lumber into the room.

"What the fuck are you doing back here?" He grunts, "I thought you went to school." There is a long pause filled with sniffing, "You haven't washed up".

I just gaze at him, avoiding his dark eyes, yet taking in his appearance. He used to be strong, muscular with sharp and chiselled features. The man before me looks bruised, weary and haggard; a mere shadow of his former being. I can feel his eyes boring into me; I recognise his anticipation for a response. But I have none. I shuffle over to the side board and turn on the stiff and rusted tap filling the sink with warm soapy water and begin washing up. Dad moves to the fridge and starts looking for food, as he wanders round the kitchen, I feel his intentional clumsiness, knocking into me, sometimes catching me roughly with his flailing elbows.

"Why didn't you go in?" I stop and look up, I know my answer. But it is private and I guard it thus.

"I did not feel like going in today." I murmur through gritted teeth.

"Why the bloody hell not?" He groans his voiced raised, I can feel the tension building between us, so dense it is almost suffocating. We barely talk nowadays, not after he was diagnosed. He sees his diagnosis as a restriction or an excuse, despite the fact he has always had his condition. Just because he has only found out the common term, it angers me that he is so hopeless, so incapable.

"I felt peculiar. I did not want to go in." This was not a lie; I would not be able to lie anyway. It hurts me inside to be deceitful.

Dad snapped- he shot up, fist flung down with huge force onto the table. He seemed to grow in stature and in being. His face flashing a dangerous crimson he grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. I felt my face contract in pain as my body was out of control, if not just for an instant. I felt emotion as pain dart through me, rattling with pace throughout my body. He let me go and I slumped down on the floor.