Your Tears Don't Fall,They Crash Around Me

Your Tears Don't Fall, They Crash Around Me- Chapter 2

yay for chapter 2! thanks for readin:)

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                                                                                 Chapter 2

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                          “Tonight’s our night like every night before (befooore). Until we fall…”

           I bolted upright in bed, the sound of my iHome’s alarm clock nearly scary me to death. I reached over and hit the “alarm off” button, stopping the Asking Alexandria song in its track. I took a moment to catch my breath, wanting to chuckle at my own stupidity. Why the hell had that scared me so bad?

            I gasped, my breathe hitching in my throat, as all of last night’s events came rushing back to me. I threw off my covers and looked down at myself, still only in my shorts and tank top, no sign of boots or sweatshirt, and somehow mysteriously back in my bed.

            I sighed in relief, “It must have been a dream…” I said to myself, just a dream. But it had felt so vivid. I remembered the way the wind felt slicing through my clothes, the exact feel of his hand clasped around mine… I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory. Surely these were feelings my brain could’ve just recreated. Sensations I had felt before, lodged in my memory and dug up for when my brain needed them once again.

             I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, not even bothering to try and snooze for a while, for fear the dream might start back up again. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

              I was making my way to the door when something caught my eye. I zeroed in on the window across the room, cracked open despite the cool weather, the breeze lifting my curtain away from the wall. I scrambled to the window and slammed it shut, throwing the lock into place. All the time internally chanting just a dream, just a dream, just a dream!

               But as I rushed out of my room and down the stairs, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

                I slowed my pace as I reached the last few steps, not wanting to draw questions out of Josie. I rounded the corners at the bottom of the stairs and made my way into the kitchen where I found her leaning against the counter, nursing a steaming mug of coffee.

                I know what you’re thinking. You’re not necessarily supposed t refer to your mother by her first name. But Josephine wasn’t my biological mom, not that I loved her any less because of it. She was my mom in every redeemable way—besides the biological part—and I loved her like any daughter loved her mother. And I have loved her since long before she’d adopted me.

                I had been with Josie and her husband, Tom, since I was 6. Josie is an artist, and had been asked to paint a mural at the “Home for Little Wanderers” I had been living at in the city since I was 5.

                I still remember seeing her for the first time. She was in her 20’s then, brush in hand, trailing a line of paint along the wall. She turned around to face me, in a tee shirt and baggy jeans she had rolled up at the ankle, completely covered head to toe in a rainbow of splattered paints. She was the most colorful grown up I had ever seen. And through all her days at the orphanage, I never willingly left her side.