Daydreams

It was distressing. Honestly, it really was. He mulled over the past week's discourse: stealing the car, reaching his friend's house, chickening out.

His father never talked about things outright- no one did. He couldn't stand it. He didn't see how his mother and father could be happy with speaking differently than they acted. A form of hypocrisy, he thought.

"Henry, quit daydreamin'!" a voice split through his... well, daydreaming. "From what your parents say, you do enough of that at school."

He couldn't argue that. He replied to his aunt's criticism with a swift nod and continued the work she and his uncle had set him to complete. Spectating Henry's continuation, his aunt hiked her skirts up, apron and all, and stomped a trail back to the farm.

Henry worked through the monotonous farm chores, in a persistent fury that aimed to distract him from other matters. Sometimes, in moments like these, he almost forced himself to clean his mind. If he got into a certain rhythm it came naturally, and the hours could fly by within seconds. He wasn't expecting to achieve that sort of rhythm today, however. Those "other matters" scattered around to all parts of his brain, clogging the section that quickened time and freed him of distractions. The sun burnt his neck and his hair clung to his temples. It was going to be a long day.

There was nothing he could do, he supposed. So he worked, mulled, and worked some more. He didn't quite mind the chatter of the chickens that so annoyed his aunt, or the stomping of the pigs that frightened his cousin.

The sun was low in the sky and it did not scorch his back by the time he finished. The summer breezes had picked up, which rattled the wooden gate to the pig pen. He secured it with extra rope, tying it as he was taught to, and headed to the home of his aunt and uncle.

"Wash up, Henry. No need for dirty hands at the table," his aunt called to him upon him entering the kitchen via the back door. Henry had every intention of washing up, as he did every day after that dirtying work, but his aunt never ceased to remind him.

After his scrub, he helped set the table and went on to eat with his extended family. He didn't speak much, just as usual, but given the fresh events of the past week, the silence was louder.

"Do you have anything you want to talk about, son?" his uncle, a nice man with good intentions, asked.

"Want isn't the way I would put it..." Henry said.

"Your father hasn't spoken a word to us besides the straight facts of all that happened. We just want to know your thoughts, is all," his uncle ensured.

"I just want to focus on my music, dad doesn't underst-" Henry started.

"And I don't either! Why not be a farmer, or a pilot like your father?" His aunt interrupted.

"None of that makes me happy, though, isn't that what it's all about? I went out to L.A. in my dad's car to get a taste of that, but all I got was weak legs and to be leavin' on a jet plane. There's not much to it."

They sat there, each one not being able to conjure up something else to add on that would get their individual points across.

"Why don't you clean up your plate, and uh... hit the hay. I'll let your parents know you are spending the night tonight," his uncle finally said. Henry stood to pick up his plate and asked if everyone else was done as well. They all nodded, placing their plates on top of Henry's for washing.

He completed this chore as he did the others, and finally felt the wear of work. He didn't think he could sleep, but trudged up the stairs to the spare bedroom anyways. He normally liked farm work, even sleeping over at his aunt and uncle's was a separate adventure, but after he got a taste of L.A. he felt out of place. He always did, as it were, but this ache was stronger. He missed his guitar.

The curtains were open in the guest room, sending faint breezes in to whirl the curtains and moonlight to illuminate. Henry rested himself on the end of the bed and sunk back, sending a puff of dust into the air to be lit up faintly by the moonlight. Without even his glasses off, he fell into a light, fitful sleep.

-

I gotta get out of here.

The window had been closed and the curtains fully drawn. Henry shot up, feeling the weight of a woolen blanket on his body. It's too hot. He pried himself from bed, grabbed his glasses, and opened the window. I gotta get out of here.

He stuck one leg out and then the next one, until he was resting on the window frame, although he was still half inside due to the smallness of the opening. He slipped down, his knees buckled upon impact and he slammed his hands on the grass but all was well. He didn't think about how he would get back in.

He walked down the drive, which only consisted of dirt and smashed granite, and made his way to a large oak that almost beckoned him.

When he reached it, he spotted out a low branch that he could reach. The silhouette of the trunk looked warbled and notched, but he didn't mind. This meant the tree was old, and hopefully strong. He grabbed the branch and hoisted himself up, leaning his torso against it as he readjusted to get a better hold.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked.

Henry let go of the branch and yelped. He fell, landing on something wooden that wasn't the tree. A groan escaped his throat before he remembered that a voice, a girl's voice, had come from above him. Before he could say anything of substance, a girl, the owner of the voice, jumped down opposite him.

"You buffoon! You landed on my guitar!" She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, leaning over to inspect.

"Guitar...?"

"Yeah, my guitar!" She pushed him over and lifted the remnants of her stringed instrument, whose strings were curled and loosened in reaction to the smashed wood.

"God, I'm sorry! You spooked me!" Henry said, regaining his stature. "What are you doing leaving a guitar around anyways?"

"I like to come out and write my music here," She said. "But now that SOMEBODY broke my guitar, I can't do that anymore."

"I'll buy you another one! Hell, I'll give you my own, almost no one wants me to have it anyways!" Henry threw up his arms and started away.

"You write?" The girl caught him by his shoulder.

Henry stopped. He needed to cool off, that IS why he came out here. He had broken her guitar, anyways.

"Yeah, I live for it," he responded, stopping and looking at the tree girl. "Do you live around here?"

"That house right over there," She pointed to what he assumed was her house, but he could only see speckles of light through the trees that blocked it. "I'm Aimee."

"Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. A mouthful, I know, I like to practice speaking it when I can," He smiled, his teeth showing. "Call me John."

"Well, John, you owe me a guitar."

"I guess I do."