The Dawn of Realization.

Something never change.

     When I returned to school, everyone seemed to think I had came down with lepracy and was contaminated, because they certainly made no notion to approach me. I wasn't sure if I blamed them or not; I didn't have the most welcoming smile on my face.

     Actually, I wasn't sure what expression my features held. I could no longer feel it when I forced up a smile.

     Other than the distant students, the students blasted me with " I'm sorry for your loss" and " I'm hear if you need someone " and all of that necassary crap that teachers slather on with that fake sympathy.

     I went about my day as I normally would sans my usual friends, which seemed to disturb people. I guess they were expecting me to be breaking down in every class, teary eyed, and still left wondering ' woe is me .'

     I found myself standing at the corner of the hall, unloading books into my locker as I heard the whisper of " hot gossip."

     The people who had once claimed to be my friends were chattering back and forth mentioning things like : " She hasn't said a word all day."; " She is so demented."; and " Doesn't she care that her dad offed himself?"

     It was all irrelevant to me, though, I had been hearing that all day long, all the while being avoided by the student body. Whether they had decided I was more important to talk about than their day or they genuinely were concerned by my lack of show of emotions was beyond me. Who could trust teenagers and what they say?

     The word had spread, that much was true. My dad, Rhett Alexander, had committed suicide. If people weren't too afraid to talk to me at all, they were bombarding me with inappropriate questions like; why my father killed himself, what was his reason, and did he leave a note.

     Offended, yes. But a believer, I was not. Contrary to popular belief, I was not completely convinced my father had killed himself. There had been a note, I knew because I was the one who found him. It was nothing but drawling chicken scratches on old notebook paper.

     I had seen him hanging from that rope, eyes wide open, and feet swaying just inches above the desk chair. And yet, I didn't believe that my father climbed that chair, tied that knot, and kicked off.

     My mother called it disturbed hope, but I was for sure on something like this. My father was not the type of person to just turn away from his problems. He faced them head on. 19 years of marriage should have told my mom a different story, too, but she didn't entertain the same idea as I.

     Of course, my mother and I were two different people. Grief stricken as she was, I was still angry at her for believing dad could so something so heinous to us.

     Suicide was selfish and my dad was anything but.

     I sat in the crowded cafeteria, perfectly alone at my single table. Where had all of my friends gone to? What happened to " there whenever you need me" days? I guess they were far away when a real crisis came about and they couldn't complain about their boyfriends texting Amber Lively, the school tramp.

     I might be alone in this, but I wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not. While, yes, I was in a great deal of pain and grief, I was certain that I didn't want to share my feelings with anyone else.

     By the time school was over, I'd had enough of the speculating rumors of my morbidness and my dad's apparent suicide. I was able to drag myself to my Oldsmobile, but the energy left me once my ass hit the 25 year old fabric seat.

     I set my bag on the passenger side, trying to relax in the cushiony seat. I stared at the old gauges in the dash.

     I thought about my mom driving around in her new Cadillac SUV, but I wouldn't trade my Cutlass for anything in the world. Well, maybe one thing, but last I checked God wasn't making any bargains for old cars in exchange for bringing the dead back to life.

     I wish he was, though, then I might be more religious. I'd definitely have more of a reason.

     I sat upright suddenly, staring out the windshield blindly. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of determination twisted around with some bitter ideas.

     I would prove who really killed my dad, because there was no way in hell he would take his own life. He wouldn't do that to me!Dad's don't do that to their only daughters, people that they love.

     I started the car, listening to the rumble of the old engine.

     I was in the middle of plotting what I should ( coming up with nothing as of yet ) when my mother sent me a text saying she would be late tonight.

     What a prime opportunity that has arisen. My mother hadn't allowed me in my father's study ever since I had found him hanging. She had mentioned something about being "traumatizing" and what not. I didn't believe in that yet.

     I got home quickly and locked the house up behind me. I tip-toed down the hallway, afraid if I walked normally it would cause my mom to arrive faster.

     I took the key off the holding perched on the wall and unlocked the door in a hurry. I don't know why I was rushing, but my adrenaline was flowing.

     I took a moment too look around the room. It was dark, naturally, from the wood paneling on the walls. One wall was nothing but filled bookshelves and another was of his achievements and liscenses and a few family portraits.

     I sat in his chair, the very chair that had been kicked out from under him. The moment felt as if were going to swallow me whole.

     I blinked, breathing, and opened the first drawer of his desk. There was a bare note pad staring me blankly in the face.

     "That was helpful." I murmured, opening another drawer. Nothing but empty filing dividers. They were named off, but all of the papers that were usually between them were gone.

     Furrowing my eyebrows together, I closed it and went to another. This drawer was normally messy, but this time every thing was neatly organized. My dad had done this. This was his clientel drawer, complete with mailing lists, estimated prices, and specfic designs.

     But there was nothing. His desk was clean of his work. I faintly wondered if the clean up crew had taken them, but I didn't think on it long when I heard my mom's car pull up. I glanced out the window, seeing her climb out.

     I swore, shut everything, locked up, and placed the key back on the wall.

     I flung myself on the couch, acting as if I'd been there all the time since I had gotten home. My mother greeted me then retreated to her bedroom like she had for the previous week. All she did was cry in there; I could hear her, but I never said anything of it. What reason would I?

     I returned my thoughts to my dad. His study had been so perculiar. So clean, so neat. Not like him at all.

     I would have to look into this further.