The Summer We L(i)(o)ved?

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter is NOT edited, so please drop corrections in the comments.

We're filing out of a long bus, recuperating from an ill-ridden journey. There's barely any grass where I'm stepping—just mud. It's clinging to my shoes, my bags -that I accidentally dropped on the ground, so help me God- and my shins from when I jumped off. Everyone was staring at everyone, yet all of us were avoiding being looked at. Think of it as a game of airball, yet the guns were our eyes and the bullets were our judgmental gazes.

A woman and a man who looked worse for wear—the latter, mind you—came from around the bus to begin name-calling. Apparently, a bus or two had come before us, and we would be the last arrivals for this season. They explained to us the rooming arrangements and told us where the seating areas were.

They didn't let us room with anyone who would be on our bus, something about wanting for us to socialize with more people and whatnot.

I couldn't be less interested.

Not long after, I was standing in my room and gauging my options.

One. Make a mad dash for it into the woods and battle with the elements till I reached a city.

Or two. Stay here for three weeks and 'have fun' just like Mama had wished.

I mean, looking at me, it wouldn't sound so far-fetched hearing I was mauled by a bee, and the camp was an expensive one, so at least the meals and exercises would put some meat on my bones. I think Wayne would have at least a few more microns of resistance when twisting my arm in our coming arm-wrestling bouts.

I put my hands on my hips and claimed the space like Neil did on the moon, a wry smile taking place on my face as I thought of things I would do with the room's "décor".

"What is that pose?" someone stifled a laugh behind me and my brain asked me the most based question ever: 'Why don't we kill ourselves right now?'

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My parents were staring at me the same way one would watch a cornered animal: alarmed and at the ready. I wasn't exactly making it easy for any us­; I was making the air tense with the subtle glare I threw in their direction.

My dad was the first to break the silence, never really liked to beat around the bush or waste time ripping the band-aid. He sighed,

"Jericho..." he started, taking a long pause that twirled my insides like a fork in a plate of Italian. "I'm sure your mother must have told you the uh... the good news?" it sounded more or less like a question to him, even. I almost scoffed, but then I realized that I and my father's relationship was not as lovey-dovey as I and my mom's.

"Look, I want you to know that I tried everything in my power to find an office even inside America," he reached out from across the table and grabbed my hand. I let him.

I stared at his old, crusty digits; his fingers eternally askew from typing on a keyboard for the past twenty-odd years.

He had given up so much for this job, and here he stood—at the precipice of his dreams.

I hate it. And I hated myself for the fact, too.

She's calling for me from behind the mahogany door, her long, fiery hair spilling out the sides, obscuring the light. I get up from my seat with the little boy and he reaches out, drawing his hand to himself not but a moment later.

The delusion of a peaceful landscape shatters before him, the window of opportune bliss closing in his face.

Denial has lost me.