paper rings (l.h.)

15

Mary's POV.

It seemed as if nothing had changed since my Grandma's incident besides the commotion of two unexpected visitors disrupting our every day routines. My Grandma, still sat watching her TV shows, just with a few more pills to take and a hospital room that holds her captive. My Mother often stayed home and cleaned as if it was her own, shooing me away when I offered to help. Please, her voice rings in my head. You rest. You have done so much already.

But I didn't feel like I did much of anything. Caring for my Grandmother didn't seem like caring for her at all. I didn't have anyone else for the longest time, despite how she and I often retreated to our own separate corners of the house when we craved stillness. I was like her that way, and often I used to find my Mom doing the same.

It was early, my Grandma had been conscious a full day now. My Mom was already at the hospital, and I sat on the porch as the humidity began to make it almost unbearable, and it was only seven AM. I sat with my cup of lukewarm coffee on my lap, my eyes fixed on the vast landscapes around me. The trees were lush and the greenest I've seen, and the grass seemed to flow like my hair, in the wind that carried gray clouds to our corner of the world. I watched as they blew and curled in the sky. Mom had mentioned that storms were likely today, and since I still had a few days off I sort of didn't mind it.

Not to mention my Mom has a car, and that my bike can rest for a few more weeks at least.

My stomach flips and churns as I find myself wondering about what the night would bring me. I often found myself glancing at my phone, watching time tick by slowly and waiting for a text from a certain boy who I may or may not already seem to have grown feelings for.

And he does respond much quicker than anticipated especially since he's at work. But I guess your job doesn't mean quite as much working as the cashier when you could buy the company.

A burst of thunder grumbles in my room as I sit at my Mother's old vanity, combing out my now too-long black hair. I glance out the window to see that it's darker than it was a second ago, water droplets falling down the glass and bright flashes of lightning shining through the sheer curtains, and it's delicate embroidered roses that I've grown to love. I cracked the window to feel the cool air sweep out the moisture that nearly suffocated me this morning.

When 4:15 finally rolled around, I had already changed into my outfit of stolen clothes — my Aunt's vintage The Smiths as well as a pair of jeans that belonged to my Mother back in the day. My shoes were mine, though, laced up black converse. As I sprayed my Rose Water and Ivy perfume across my body I heard a car pull into our driveway.

The doorbell rings a moment or two later, and I bolt down the stairs towards the silhouette standing on the other side of the screen door.

His back is turned towards me as I approach the door, and I can't help but feel a sort of pain in my heart for what I had found out just the night before. I read more than I had wanted to, found out more than I should have. I hated myself for looking it up at all, that was his story to tell, kept repeating in my head as I wrapped my hand around the screen door handle.

Luke's stood at the edge of the porch, in his rain-soaked t-shirt and plaid pants (which made me feel better about my outfit pulled out of a 90's sitcom). He leaned forward enough to feel the rain touch nearly the entirety of his arm, but not enough for him to fall onto the second step down. He balanced on his tippy toes, old adidas shoes that were worn and grimy. But I wasn't one to mind that kind of thing, plus I think shoes look better once they've been scratched up.