The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Four

The sun peaked just above the cotton clouds, watching over them like a guardian angel. The rays streaked through them, onto the Victorian homes which lined the village block. My father opened the old, creaking, vintage door after closing another one. The autumn leaves that guarded it crunched when he did so.

The view led to a finely furnished but diversified living space. Modern light fixtures were paired with rustic and antique shelves. Old windows were draped with new, cheap curtains. The heavy wooden island was worn from being stained many times.

It was obvious people had made this residency their own with different styles, so they had lost sight of the original one. An orange-yellow glow absorbed into the oak flooring, illuminating the walls and banisters in our new house. A warm essence evolved from the sun-lit windows as they heated the rooms without use of the furnace.

I sat where the light soaked through the transparent curtains, bathing and basking in its entirety. Dad set down a cardboard box filled with kitchen utensils before he put his arm around my shoulders. Mom was still bringing in more storage from the moving truck, the smell of stingy gasoline wafting from the open door.

"Mom, did you bring my puzzles?" I asked.

"You love board games, don't you?" She replied.

"I love creating them even more." My mom beamed and exited back to the moving truck to gather some of my things. Dad crouched next to me, playing with my action figures.

"I think you'll like it here, L. Seattle has so many things to do and see."

"I hope I'll like it here too," I said in a small voice. "I wish we didn't have to move."

"It's not like we had a choice," my dad said. I glanced up briefly with pouted lips, returning to my action figures.

"Isn't it supposed to rain here? Like all the time?" My father laughed, admitting it was usual.

"Then why isn't it raining now?" I asked.

"Maybe Seattle wants you to accept it before you judge it," father said.

"I'd rather my new school burn. I'd like Seattle better then." He ruffled my hair.

"I wouldn't count on it." He stood up, beginning to unpack and place objects in the dusty cabinets and doors. This is why I love Seattle, but now why I practically hate it. The night of October twenty-ninth was one of my favorites for no particular reason.

But, now it is overshadowed by recent memories. Maybe it was the smells, or the emptiness of the room. Maybe it was how my parent's facades were aged back twenty years by my livelihood, or the crackling of the fireplace at night, or the spare wood I helped my father collect in bunches.

Perhaps it was just Seattle itself, the rain on most days lulling me into a deep rest, the pitter pattering of water drops plodding against the shingles.

That very night, the window that provided me light now provided chilled darkness and watched upon our evening meal like a lonely spectator. I couldn't have noticed it, however, as I was so involved in the delicious meal my mother had conjured to my liking.

"How do you like the steak and mushrooms with onions, sweetie? I know it's your favorite." The savored, smoky flavors flourished into one. I took a sip of milk to wash it down.

"The best you've made so far, mom," I said with honesty. She took another bite, though I don't suppose she was pleased with her work.

"For an eleven year old, you sure like a lot of variety on your plate. I never expect some things from you, L," my dad said in surprise.

"Well I'm not always predictable," I replied. He then reached towards my mother, kissing her.

"And I guess your aren't either," I said while I wrinkled my nose. They just laughed and raised two wine glasses to my plastic one which made a light clink.

"To a whole decade of being happily married. Happy Anniversary, Lucy. Le soir est à nous." It's these meaningless yet most meaningful moments in which I ponder. Why does life give us a wood bundle of happiness just to burn it to ashes; like a dish served at a restaurant for a limited time? My heart aches now: a painful lurch, and life basks in my silent cries.

"An anniversary," I whisper.

"What?" Oliver looks up from a magazine.

"That day we moved was their anniversary! My dad gave the house to my mom as a gift . . . "

"Wait a house as a gift?"

"Yeah." He pauses for several moments.

"Keep going."

"Anyways, I was driving them to their anniversary dinner, another gift. Their personal chauffeur you could say. Le soir a été la leur." I chuckle sadly.

"What?"

"It means the evening was theirs." Oliver nods slowly, and I can tell he doesn't really care. "I was just sitting there and a Jupiter ball comes hurling my way. I can still remember the pressure: the ringing in my ears.

"Then I glanced over, seeing my parents' corpses lying close to the front steps. Their eyes were open, like they were forced to look death in the face. I can't describe it to you . . . " I shake my head tiredly, and it hangs to prevent Oliver from seeing my vulnerability to emotion. "I just miss them so much, and I can't describe that to you either. Ever." It's so lonely, keeping everything locked inside. Nobody really understands my situation. Sure, countless others have been through things similar, but it's diversity that divides.

"I heard the story on the news, but let me just say: hearing it come from you was way different. I'm sorry, L. I'm sorry about your parents." L? I freeze and slowly lift my head, a chill running down my spine as cold water runs down the length of an icicle.

"Is something wrong?" I notice then that I'm biting my tongue, the metallic taste of blood lingering on my lips. I lick them, feeling the indenting of teeth marks and the utter soreness taking me by surprise.

"No, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." Oliver tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

"Landon, you're anything but fine. Just look at you."

"Okay, I'm fantastic then," I say, sarcastically.

"You know what I mean." I turn away from Oliver and pull into a tight ball.

"Just leave me alone and let me grieve."

"I don't think you should–"

"Please go," I plead. Oliver reluctantly stands and plods towards the door.

"You need help even though you may not think it. I'm here for you, if you decide to open up to me again about all this. I'll accept the girly attitude for now. Just don't be afraid to let me know what's going on in that head of yours. I'll um . . . I'll be back with some steak from the cafeteria. If it even is steak." He twists the knob discordantly, the door shuddering from impact. I try to shut the door to my mind as well, and ironically block out all the good memories. Perhaps it's better to just forget everything. I want to forget this empty feeling in my chest more than anything, but I just can't.