Adventure of a Lifetime

Going Out

I stared at the stars on my ceiling, wondering where I had conjured those constellations from. They were very specific. A whole two page spread in my dream journal had been dedicated to them. I had been puzzling over them for a while in the hospital. As soon as I got home, I painted my ceiling.

Dad had been more than a little miffed. He said that my constant absence from our house did not give me a right to do whatever I wanted now. I didn't argue, and I did understand his reasoning for my recent actions. Really, i just needed a bigger space to put the constellations in. Somewhere I could just look up and study. Ceilings were great for this sort of thing. 

"At least I didn't do it at the hospital! And it's not like it looks bad." I said. Dad shook his head and looked back up at the ceiling. I waited for him to say something.

"No, it doesn't look bad. They just don't make any sense. They don't make anything." He said. I smiled, accepting his challenge.

"Earth's constellations didn't make anything either. A bunch of old sexist codgers decided they were warriors, and great water dippers." I said, hoping he'd think it were funny. He laughed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. Score one for me, I thought.

"Sexist? Why were they sexist?" Dad asked, grinning. I smiled back, my slightly crooked teeth showing.

"Orion couldn't have been a woman? Listen Dad, I'm sorry. I've just been thinking about those patterns for a while. I needed a place to put them, and..."

"The ceiling was available. S'okay. Just ask next time. Maybe I can get you a drop cloth so you don't get paint on the carpet." He hugged me, and kissed the top of my head. My hair was thinning, too. I watched him walk out and then collapsed back on my bed. What do they mean? My journal jeered at me from my nightstand, as if it were a pesky child who knew they were right. My journal seemed to have all the answers. I just didn't know how to read the stuff I was writing down. Whirling patterns that looked like circles with bites taken out of them, dots and lines. I would wake up with the patterns practically branded to the back of my eyelids.

No one was allowed to touch my journals. I had a shelf full of them. Mum and Dad said my therapist recommended I start writing in a journal after I had a series of nightmares that were so terrible, I would refuse to sleep. Dr. Minta, the therapist, said I had an overactive mind, and that I needed to stimulate it. Of course, I don't remember any of this. I think something nefarious is to blame. Or maybe that's just my overactive mind.

I caught my mum reading through one of my journals once. I was maybe twelve, and also very good at sneaking up on people. When I grabbed my journal out of her hand, she spilled her coffee all over it. I went numb, after realising my mother had not only destroyed all of my work, but had also betrayed my trust. She sat in her chair, also numb. Finally, she knelt next to me in the mess and put a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I slapped away her hand, too angry for her maternal gestures.

"I wanted to know what was going on in that head of yours." She had said. "You're just so strange." 

Every since then, I'd learned to keep a close eye on my things. It wasn't like she could actually read any of it, but it was still a little disconcerting. I would keep a fine dye powder on them, and any time she touched them, she would have blue on her fingers. The powder was activated with sweat, something clever I found online. She learned quickly not to mess with my things.

That night, after dinner, I sat in the den in front of the telly. Tomorrow, I would go back to the hospital, so I was catching up on my shows. Faintly, I could hear Mum and Dad arguing. I turned down the telly a notch when I heard my name.

"So you didn't punish her? She ruined the ceiling, and you're just letting her off?" I heard Mum say. I got up and tiptoed into the corridor, just by the kitchen. Dad was washing dishes, and Mum was drying them. 

"Penelope's nineteen. Besides, what's the point in punishing her? She's already miserable." Dad said. Mum placed a dinner plate in the cabinet. 

"She wouldn't be miserable if she went and made some friends." Another plate added to the stack.

"What's the point in making friends when you're dying? Besides, she's too smart for the kids her age." Dad said. Mum had moved onto silverware, drying the pieces in slow circles.

"Maybe we should send her off to that college she wanted to go to before. She'd enjoy that." I did like the sound of that. I missed physics and astronomy. Maybe I could get a degree in astrophysics... Dad broke my thoughts with words that cut like an axe.

"We don't have the money. She wouldn't have the time, what with the doctor's appointments and such. Besides, the doctor said she's not responding to the treatments anymore. They're engineering an entirely new medicine for her. She might not even respond to that one. Why send a dying girl off to college?" A little harsh, Dad. I wasn't angry though, because I understood his reasoning. 

"Dammit, Robert! We wouldn't be dealing with any of this if you'd just sent her back !" Mum slammed down a fistful of forks angrily. Sent me back? I didn't like where this was going. 

"Don't be a bloody idiot, Helen. We've raised her since she were a baby. Sending her back twelve years later was out of the question." Dad said softly. Mum shook her head. I was crying now. It all made sense. I'd never heard any stories about the day I was born, never seen any pictures. 

"She's just here, Robert. We can't do anything with her." Mum continued. I didn't stick around to hear the rest of her rubbish. I just slinked away, back into my cave of stars. My bed welcomed me, an old friend that had seen me shed many a tear. I looked out my window, watching the hectic streets of London busy with nightlife. Oh what the hell...  I thought, as I climbed out of the window. I took the fire escape down to the front door. Nothing could stop me now. I ran far away.

I had every intention of going back home, just not right now. I passed a fish and chip place, an old pub. It was a perfect moment for a drink, but I figured I should keep my wits about me. My legs hurt badly, and I was a bit knackered from the run. A great blue box loomed in front of me. It read "Police Box", like the old ones that would be found lurking in corners in the older neighborhoods. I sat next to it and leaned my head against its side, hoping nothing would happen to me. I knew nothing would happen. Something about the box made me feel safe. It didn't take but a moment for me to doze off.