I sit on the couch in the Willem's living room, absolutely content. They moved their living room furniture around and the set-up seems perfect to me. The couch which once stood too close to the center has been moved back to a secluded place in front of the largest window. A potted plant sits on the left and the door to the kitchen resides on the right. This couch, (Georgia called it a love seat) is my new favorite place, besides my bed. It's comfortable and well lit and is the perfect size. It's a calm place, and I can use it to think or write, as long as the kids, who are home on Thanksgiving break, aren't rough-housing. Ah, Thanksgiving. The dreaded first-year-first-holiday. The one which foster kids everywhere supposedly dread. The first holiday in which one must meet the extended family and pray for mercy against their criticism. The holiday in which one must bear the scrutinizing glance of the grandmother, the awful curiosity of the younger cousins, and the all-too blatant judgement from any other teenagers who may be present. Luckily, the Willems only plan to spend one day with their relatives, so I must only bear it for about twelve hours. Needless to say, my past first-year-first-holiday's haven't gone so well. But I'd rather not think of that. Georgia and Mr. Willem have already prepped me for Thanksgiving, informing me that, though the younger cousins are rather rambunctious, the majority of the rest of the family are, for the most-part, quiet and accepting. This would come as a relief, if several other families hadn't told me similar things before throwing me into the fiery inferno which they called 'extended family'. My completely ungrateful attitude must sound horrific. "Erril, can I send you on an errand please? I've run out of chocolate chips and Allison's been wanting my help for the past half-hour. If I send some cash with you could you maybe go pick them up for me?" Georgia's voice resounds from the kitchen. She's been completely swamped between cooking and kids. I did offer to help, but she shooed me away, saying that it's my holiday as much as it is the kids'. I appreciate it. A lot. Therefore, as kind of a 'thank you' to Georgia, I nod, taking the money from her outstretched hand slipping on a coat and boots. It's actually started to snow here, which I'm grateful for. My last foster-home was in California, so Thanksgiving and Christmas were anything but white. They were more of a sandy brown color, if that makes sense. I never liked the desert. Either way, though, we've already gotten cold weather, and the wind is completely frigid all the time. I love it. I love how the snow completely silences everything. It's so very peaceful. The flakes, though cold, are soft and gentle as they drift down from the gray/white sky. I know most people find it miserable, but I just don't. To me, it's lovely. As I trudge down the two blocks to the grocery store which I have become well acquainted with, I begin to contemplate how much the people around me have been so much like snow. One would probably find it odd; my likening people to cartoon animals and weather. I don't know, One may only compare humans to so many things, I suppose. Anyways, people are like snow. They come into your life just to make you feel cold, just to make you feel something only to slip away to indecisive water droplets that run away as soon as you show yourself to them. My thoughts are not at all understandable. Perhaps that is why no one understands me. But who knows? Who cares? My mind seems to take a turn in the wrong direction no matter what I think about. I groan quietly. I've been so wrapped up in my comparisons that I have walked a block to far and must turn back. It's probably dangerous to become so entwined in my thoughts that I completely ignore everything around me, but I don't know of any other way to think. After all, what is the point of my thoughts if they do not invoke deeper contemplation? A gust of warm air shoots through my coat as the automatic doors to the grocery store open for me. I always liked automatic doors as a kid; they seemed to be welcoming me inside, being so willing to open without being pushed or pulled. Needless to say, I wasn't welcomed in very much as a child, so the automatic doors seemed quite friendly to me. It's no wonder they sent me to the M.A. Yeah, don't ask. Walking briskly down the isle, past what feels like miles of ingredients, I search aimlessly for the chocolate chips. One would supposed that they'd be easy to find, but no, not for me. While I enjoyed the automatic doors when I was a child, I had a knack for getting lost in the isles. I stop in the middle of the bread/coffee isle when I hear a song quietly sneak onto the radio which they play throughout the store. Summer Begs by Sarah Jaffe. I smile as the guitar strumming echoes throughout the bustling building. This song is one of my favorites, because even though it has a slightly nostalgic sound, it is peaceful and seemingly content. Realizing suddenly that I've been standing in front of a shelf of bread smiling to myself, I begin to be afraid that people will think me slightly mad, so I move on, but don't bother to hid the smile. No one ought to care about my facial expression anyways. The song causes old memories to resurface slowly, appearing with fuzzy edges, but still clear enough to remember. Lots of singing. Before things turned sour, My whole family sang. All the time. There was constantly music around, from the radio, from the keyboard my mother kept, from my father, from my friends. From me. But not anymore. I left, and I shut my mouth. I haven't sung a note since everything happened, and I don't think I could if I tried. Sing to me now, right out your window You'r father'd be proud, now that it's simple. As if on cue, the lyrics reverberate, making me role my eyes. I can't sing anymore. I've lost the voice I once possessed. I don't supposed I'll ever sing again. I just can't. And then, at last, and just as the song ends, I find the chocolate chips. I feel like I've been in this store to long, so I quickly make my way to the checkout lines. Luckily, they're short and I manage to make it out of the store within five minutes. The cold wind bites at my face when I return to the outside, and I realize the sun is going down. streetlights give off there orange glow in the dying light, faint, but growing steadily stronger. I shiver. The night is never a good time to be walking the streets alone; trust me, I know. I'll have to hurry if I wish to make it home before the sun goes down completely. I begin to jog, feeling slightly frightened. Though I'm not afraid of the dark itself, I know there are things residing in the dark which I do not wish to meet. I continue on my pace until about a block from the house, at which point I slip on the ice and go face first into the snow. It's unbelievably cold, and I jump back with an annoyed sigh, trying to brush the flakes off of my face and out of my sleeves. I've begun to shiver a bit harder, so I walk the last block as quick as I can, avoiding the ice that lies, gracing the sidewalk with it's slick shimmer. A dog barks in the background, making me jump a bit, but I've come to the steps leading to the front door. Thankfully it's unlocked, and I quickly make my way inside the porch. My boots, as well as my socks and jacket, are completely soaked, and are hard to get off. Sitting on the shoe chest, I tug at my boots until they release my feet and peel my socks and jacket off with haste. I can hear Georgia and Mr. Willem inside. Their tone is tense, which, of course, makes me tense as well, and I fear they are speaking of me. What did I do now? I'm not so sure I want to go into the house anymore. Perhaps if I just stay in the porch I can avoid the conflict. My anxious thoughts are interrupted by a pajama-clad Selah tapping my shoulder quietly. "Hey." I whisper to her, doing my best to give her a smile, and not a grimace. "Mommy wanted me to tell you Ally got sick." She whispers back, "They're not talking about you, so you don't have to worry." "How-Why do you think I'm worried they're talking about me?" I ask, amazed that she understands so easily what I'm anxious about. And also that I'm anxious at all. "You always seem worried, I'm just guessing that's what you think. But you don't have to be worried, you can come inside. If you want to." She whisper-explains innocently. I give her a quick hug and let her lead me to the warmth of the inside. Sometimes I don't believe she's four at all. Once we've successfully made it through the kitchen without being spotted by Selah's parents, she takes me upstairs so I can read to her. "Which book do you want tonight?" I ask her, gazing at the selection which adorns her bookcase. She holds out a slightly torn, worn-out looking story. Goodnight Moon. A smile appears on my face as I read the title. It seems as though every child has this book somewhere in their home. I've read it to some of the kids in my past foster homes, so I assume it to be in all of the homes. Sitting on the edge of Selah's bed, I begin reading softly so I don't disturb Allison, who is in the next room over. I'm mid-sentence in when I hear the shouting. Georgia and Mr. Willem fighting. I've heard them fight before, but never as harshly as this. It's frightening. It's like the last foster home... "Are you okay, Erril?" Selah asks, looking perplexed at my sudden change in facial expression. She looks slightly upset herself. I nod, to reassure her and hand her the book. "Do you think Andrea would read this to you?" I ask, my anxiety growing. She nods and hops off the bed, running to Andrea's room as if she too wishes to block out the noise. The shouting's gotten louder. Rising hastily, I make my way to the bathroom,trying to contain the panic rising within me. I cover my ears, looking for silence, but I can still here the fighting. It's too much like the other homes. It's too many memories. It's too much noise and no silence. I try hard. I try so hard to be okay, to calm myself, but the walls are thin and I can't block it out. Finally, desperate to get away, I creep down the stairs, hand over my mouth to cover my now-heavy breathing, and rush out the back door to the yard. It's fenced in, so I have nothing to fear, and i'ts more peaceful than inside, at the moment. I sit on the kid's swing trying to catch my breath. I can hear my heart-beat in my ears, but that's better than hearing hurtful words from the adults inside. Selah said that I wasn't the cause of this, but I'm not sure. I seem to cause these things no matter where I go. My breathing hasn't slowed yet, which causes me to panic more. I put my head in my hands and will everything to go away. I feel sick and now my head hurts. I told Dare that I would call him the next time this happened; that was our agreement, but he didn't give me his number, so I've no reason to feel guilty about not. I'm glad. Actually, would I really mind his company? Last time he was able to help me calm down. But now I can't. I can't I can't I can't I can't. My thinking comes to a slow as the panic overtakes my senses. I can't think, I can't breathe, I don't even have the ability to lean over and throw up. I'm completely overtaken. I can't I can't I can't I can't. My mind chant's. Where is peace? Suddenly, two hands grip my shoulders, and I'm shaken into an upright position. "Erril?" A voice asks, panicked, but not nearly as panicked as me. "Erril, please calm down, please talk to me. Look at me. Erril?" "Don't touch me." I manage to gasp to whoever the person is. I'm fighting, but the anxiety drifts me closer to a dark void which seems to be some sort of menacing sleep. "Erril, please please please breathe." The voice murmurs, as though they themselves are trying to remain calm. "Trying." Is all I manage to choke out. Quickly, the two hands pull me from the swing and sit me in the cold snow. The icy sensation manages to pull me away from the black pit, but not very far from it. "Erril." The voice attempts again, "Erril please listen to me. I can't stop this, I can't help you unless you let me. You're the one who has to overcome this. I promise I'm trying, I swear I am, but I can't do much unless you let me." The person sighs "I don't even know if you can understand me... Please let me help you." Then, without warning, I'm pulled back into the pit of nothingness, left to tumble downwards into the blinding darkness which now surrounds me. And the only coherent thought I can form is "Thanks for the pep talk."
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(A/N): Wooooooooooh!!! 2K words! not gonna lie, for me that's quite an accomplishment. Soo what did you guys think? Did you like the little trip to the store? Who do you think the person with Erril is? Is she okay? Guess you'll just have to wait for the next chapter. Oh, by the way, the song I mentioned in it is an actual song, and it's one of my favorites; go look it up. Anyways, I do hope you enjoyed this chapter, thanks to all who took the time to read it. Love you all.
~Kaelyn
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Mind Reconstructive
RandomWe all have our stories, but most of us don't have stories that run our lives..." Erril has one of those unruly past's that she simply can't erase, and panic in her mind that doesn't let her forget it at all. Dare's a special kid with a knac...
