folklore; conrad fisher

31: beautiful things

There wasn't much I could remember from my Summers in Pennsylvania. Sometimes, it felt like Summer only truly existed right here, in Cousin's Beach. But there were faint memories, and I'd recall them here and there. I remembered that there was a creek we'd drive to on the weekends. There were dark, wooden picnic tables that my mom and dad used to set up lunch on. The water was lined with evergreen shrubs and hemlock trees. My mom would try to skip stones over the water, but she never got the flick of the wrist right.

It was 2010, right before the fighting began. For a brief period we could just be family. Normal, nuclear, and all-American. My dad found an old swing hanging off of one of the trees. He sat me on top of it and pushed me gently. I wanted to fly. I told him to swing me harder, and after my persistent begging, he gave me a nice push that sent me up in the air. I was seven feet above ground, feeling like I was on top of the entire state of Pennsylvania.

I was young when the back-and-forths started, but I still had a strange feeling that something had shifted entirely in our households. I'd never get those Summers back, and I'd probably never visit the creek again. But I'm embarrassed to admit that even to this day, I sometimes hoped that things would fall back into place. In the deepest depths of myself, I kept these memories close, with the faith that one day I'd be seven feet high again.

But that kind of hope is unrealistic, and I'd only keep it in the corner of my mind. I knew that the old family I used to have was long gone, torn apart by my father. When I went to bed, dizzy, unstable, and out of control, I wondered if he'd passed down that sickness and evil to me.

When I found a family, I ruined it for myself, too.

I realized that after I woke up, my face pressed against the carpet of my old room. I opened my phone, which was somehow still alive, and the time read '12:33.' So much for my plan of leaving in the morning. Then I went downstairs, where I saw Conrad speaking with Laurel, and I felt nauseous all over again.

Laurel was standing downstairs, and for all I knew she could have still hated me, and it was all my fault.

This woman gave me everything I wanted: a home. I chose to repay her by screaming at her own son at her best friend's funeral. I couldn't watch them talk, I couldn't even look at her. Laurel in her navy-blue cashmere sweater, and casually done bun. Laurel, who drove me to school every week for years. Laurel, who let me sleepover in her house on the bad nights. Laurel, who taught me how to do my hair, how to dance, how to speak my mind. Laurel, who I considered my second mother.

I hid back up in my room. I never wanted to go downstairs again. I was planning on it, actually, becoming a squatter in Susannah's empty house. However, Steven swung my door open and told me I'd have to come down immediately.

"Dude, Adam's about to get here. Some shit is about to go down."

"I'm good, thank you."

"Well, you give me no choice."

I started screaming as Steven picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. I hit his back begging him to let me go, but he continued on down the stairs.

"You're heavy!" He complained.

I rolled my eyes, still kicking his chest, "You're weak!"

"Girls love skinny guys, isn't that right Taylor?" He winked at the blonde standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Steven, put her down!" She said, and Steven did so. He pushed me off so that I fell right onto the floor. He winced and gave me a quick 'sorry' as I threw a middle finger up at him. Taylor laughed as Steven handed her some keys, and kissed her forehead goodbye.