Flash

Chapter 3

I sprint as fast as I can back to my house, and stop in the driveway where I see Ma's car. I smile to myself and run inside.

"Ma!" I call, looking around the house.

"My little Alice." I spin around to see Ma staring at me intently. "You are so beautiful." I jump into her arms and hug the life out of her. She smells like chai and airplane leather; a scent so familiar to me, so comforting.

"I missed you so much..." I whisper into her hair. My ma works under a secret organization around the world. I don't know what she does. The only person who did was Dad, and obviously her employers, but I've never met them, or even heard a thing about them.

She's been gone for two months, yet nothing about her seems different: same dark hair and stunning blue eyes, same tired smile and wrinkled clothes as before.

"Go get some rest," I tell her. "You look like you could use it."

"My Little Alice, always so selfless," Ma murmurs before kissing my forehead and disappearing down the hall with her luggage. The thought of her presence makes me smile; and knowing I am under a safe roof, I walk up the stairs. Ma can't sleep in her and Dad's room anymore because it makes her depressed, so she moved into the spare bedroom across the hall from my own. Whenever she's asleep, I go into their old bedroom and just lay on their bed and smell the comforter, it still smells like him, or what I imagine him to smell like. I plop down on the king bed and carress the maroon sheets.

Was he beautiful? I thought. Did he resemble an angel, like Ma? Or was he worthless? All I've ever known him to do was buy this goddamned house, which basically is sitting in a hole of poverty he dug around us. I sigh and burrow under the blankets, instantly feeling heat warp through my body. Tucking my hands underneath the pillows, I try with every ounce of my very being to remember one thing about my father. I sift through my mind; I am searching for gold; until my hand under the pillow hits something cold and flexible. I sit straight up, and with my other hand, peel the pillow off my arm to look at what is now recognizable as the backside of a photograph, under my fingertips. I flip it over and gaze at the figures depicted. There are two people: a middle aged man and a young boy. It is in black and white, but the picture quality seemed more recent. The man is crouching beside the child with the biggest smile plastered on his face. They both are laughing at the camera, most likely about the boy's appearance: he is covered in mud. I can tell that his hair is a golden blonde and he is sporting a few gaps in his smile.

It is a beautiful picture, I decide, so I fold it up and place it in the pocket of my running pants and I cuddle back down into a short sleep.

Anthony's P.O.V.

It's a long drop from here, the store roof that my butt is currently planted upon. Yet soon I will probably be yelled at and chastised, "No more roof sitting Gray!" or "The Devil be with ya if you're to come crashing down from there!", and will have to jump down. I laugh dryly, remembering all the times this old man has screamed at me for climbing up here. It's my usual spot, and I may have to change that soon.

"Is that stupid Anthony kid up there again, god be darned.." I chuckle, and wave at my best friend Bobby Willums.

"Howdy Bobby!" I shout, and salute him. "How's business?"

"Damn you Gray! All my clients bolt if they even get near my store, fer' there's a gangly teenage boy sittin' all royal like on my roof!" Bobby yells. "Off with ya!"

I slide down, a smug grin on my face, and land on my feet right in front of Bobby. He spanks me, gives me a wink, and goes hobbling back into his rickety store. I salute once again and dash out onto the road, not checking for traffic. Bobby Willums is an aspiring entrepreneur who moved to little ole' London last summer from Tennessee. I give him a rough time, but all in all, he's a good friend, like a father who is there for you and never drinks alcohol or smokes or beats his wife.

I walk up the sidewalk and stop at the local park. This place brings me countless memories, like being with my older sister and flying off the swings. Most of the time she just laughed, but some days she'd be in a mood and would scream, "Anthony don't ever do that again you're going to kill yourself!". She sounded like my mum on those days, strict and pretending to care about my health or whether I killed myself or not.

I sit down on a swingset and push myself with my feet. I miss those days, when I was young and carefree and Megan was here. After the park, Mum would make us hot cocoa and we'd play board games until bedtime. Those were good times, and occaisonally I think they were too good to be mine. But yet here I am, swinging like a six year old, each day of that year flooding back to me.

"Excuse me, man." I snap up and look at the little boy standing in front of me. He has dark curly hair and bright blue eyes that are looking right at me. I don't event think he's blinking.

"Is there a problem?"

"There aren't anymore swings."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Mhm. Mind giving me yours?"

"Yes. There's a reason I'm sitting on it."

The boy furrows his eyebrows and sets his baby pink lips in a line. "Well alright. I'll wait."

"Go ahead."

"Not to be rude, man," he adds, "but you're too old to swing."

"Nobody's too old to swing," I say, tilting my head a bit. "How old are you?"

"Six."

"You're too old to swing."

"Am not!" he retorts. "I bet you're ten times six."

I laugh, and look at him. He reminds me of myself. Not in looks, but in personality. Stubborn, clever, a bit pushy. I glance at the boy. He's now sitting on the ground, flicking a woodchip with his fingers. Sighing, I get up off the swing and offer it to him. I watch him plop down on it, and he smiles.

"Thank you man. You can go places, I'm sure of it."

"Thanks bud. Have a good day."

I walk away from the park, and think about the words the boy said. I turn back, and there he is, flying through the air and off the swing. I shake my head, and start toward home.

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