Nostalgia, Distractions, and Regular Tuesdays

Chapter 1

"Sometimes I just really want to hit somebody with a brick, you know?" Chance stares back at me with wide eyes. He had not yet grasped my all talk and no violence attitude. Don't get me wrong, violence is bad, but the thought of kicking someone's ass is somewhat empowering. 

"Um... no. I'm going to have to say I don't know." He quickly switches his attention back to the television, paying no attention to me or the notes in his lap. 

A few moments pass before I say, "Well what if you wanted to hit them purely out of curiosity? Just like 'how hard would I have to hit you before you become extremely annoyed?'"

"You're insane," Chase says blatantly. He started putting his books in his back pack. 

"I'm inquisitive," I object. "Where are you going? You're going to miss melodramatic teen drama togetherness time!" 

"I need to get back to the library. Finals are next week."

"Alrighty. I'll just watch these chick flicks alone then," I tease. 

"Hey! Step-sibling code! Never watch chick flicks with your younger step sister."

I bury myself in more blankets. "Fine. Go study, nerd." He sticks his tongue out at me and heads out the garage door. Sure, he's a twenty-something years old but he can be childish at times. 

I'm left alone in our roomy house, the television muted. The silence is deafening and I suddenly feel completely alone. I dig down into my burrow of blankets even further. I need something to distract myself. After a minute, I grab my phone and request a video chat. My sister, Kimberly, picks up, the reception crackly. 

"Hey, Buttface," Kimmy answers. She's sitting outside in the sun, wearing shorts and a tee shirt. I glance out the window across from the couch and I see that it's snowing...again. 

"Hey, Kimmy. Can you tell me a story?" I ask. I cover up with more blankets and pillows until only my eyes are showing.

"Okay... Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine, Kimmy. Just talk please." She starts rambling about some art class that she is taking down in Texas. I try to calm down a bit but I still feel worried. I haven't met a full fledged panic for a while now and I don't want to break my streak.

It all started a few months ago. My life had started shifting into a sickening repetitive cycle. Waking up, going to school, writing, reading what I write until I hate it, and then falling asleep with sheets of paper strewn about the room. At one point I got tired of it all and I just wanted to quit. It only took one final act of vehemency that changed me. It wasn't the dry kind of anger, either. It was the wet kind of anger that leaves you sniffily and weak. It was the anger that leaves you choking on your own words and crying, above all else. The worst part was that I had no idea what I was angry about. Maybe I was mad at myself, but who knows? I never let anyone see me like that. I suppose that's why I get so anxious when I'm alone, it was the only time I could let out my hysteria. Anyway, I wanted to put an end to it and I wanted to fast. Instead of shoving the wet anger aside, I kept quiet and wrote about everything. I didn't care what it was or how awful it was, I kept it to myself. That didn't stop me from me from reading it until I hated it, of course. It was just a distraction. And believe me, any distraction was better than none. 

"Evelyn?" Kimmy's voice snapped me out of my day dream

"Yep?"

"Are you listening?"

Nope. "Yeah. Look, I'm gonna let you go, okay?" Kimmy hesitantly shifts in her lawn chair. 

"Okay. Feel better, sweetie." Not likely. I throw my phone down next to me and try to, yet again, calm down. What the hell am I even worried about? It's like all of the regrettable decisions I've made in the last 8 years try to make a reappearance in my nightmares for reasons that are unknown. 

I reluctantly get up from my safe burrow of feathery down and walk to the french doors that lead to the deck. Once I'm outside, I let the sun shine on my face, the warm patio heating my feet. After a few deep breaths I pad downstairs, still bare foot, to the old tire swing. My dad used to push me on the swing until my feet barely touched the tree trunk that held the rope high above my head. Now, the only person that uses it is my niece. Bubba, my nephew used to watch us play from the deck stairs, but we don't talk about him any more. 

After a few failed jumps and a really awkward encounter with my next door neighbor, I'm finally perched precariously atop the tire. With my legs giving me momentum, I slowly swing back and forth, leaning against the aged rope. My heart beat slows and the clear, lavender scented air fills my lungs as I remember what happened and think "Will I ever be the same again?"