Stuck In Time

Chapter 15

My weary body dragged itself home, slumping shoulders and red nose attracting more attention that wanted. Several times I was called Rudolph by passing teens, adding to my poor mood. When I finally reached my front porch, my body crumpled and I flopped onto the step, letting out a huge sigh. It felt like I was holding my breathe the whole walk home. After I ran out the cemetery, I leaned against the cold fence and balled my eyes out. So many sympathetic looks came my way, and for once, I actually appreciated them. It somehow made me feel I was’t alone.

Letting out a small hiccup, I stood and made my way towards the front door, preparing myself for the bombard of questions from my aunt. When I walked in, I was surprised to find that Grace was gone, out shopping apparently, according to the note. This gave me time to think. 

And I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

My legs unexpectantly carried me like I was flying, and before I knew it I was in my room, ripping out any unwanted junk from my treasure chest in my closet. My hands groped aimlessly, searching anywhere an object was attainable. Finally my finger grazed a leather bind, and I tightened my grip on it. I wrenched the book out, and stared at my long-lost friend. 

I sat pretzel style on my bed, pen in hand and head resting on my penguin pillow pet auntie got me. My hands were shaking, but I knew I had to write. I opened the cover of my journal, and my fingers brushed the first word I had written almost two months ago. 

“It’s only been three months?” I thought to myself. So much has happened, both good and bad. 

I chuckled, realizing what my first words were. Just a simple ‘Hey. I’m Carson.’ I briefly skimmed over what else I written, about how I was actually going to use this journal, and even how my life was crap. I read over the recap of that horrid night, searching for any clues. The only thing I could think of was that a car was coming towards us, in the wrong lane. 

How could I not think of this before? It’s very unlikely that a car would head straight towards us, determination in the drivers face. 

Determination.

How could I remember this? Her face? Her soberness? Is it because I can now remember things? I’ve been pushing the memory back far into my mind, not wanting to bring it up. Now suddenly it’s in my face, clear as day. 

No more thinking. All writing.

As my hand hit the paper, letters began forming words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and so on. I couldn’t stop writing, no, not for the life of me. There had been so much that had gone on, and this poor journal was locked up, missing out on every grueling detail a journal adores to absorb. I couldn’t contemplate what I wanted to write, for everything was coming out. I could finally vent; the grief, fright, and happiness was now off my chest. It felt so good knowing the craziness was written down. I could start a new chapter (Ha ha, get it?) on my life. It was great. 

It also helped me think better, and try to look for clues. I wrote down the “riddle” my dad had given me, wondering what it could have meant. 

My hand was beyond cramped after the hour I spent writing in it. Promising myself to take down more events for real this time, I carefully placed the delicate diary under my bed, where it can sleep peacefully in it’s new home, and not just in that dusty chest where I tried to undoubtedly forget my memories. I want to have them saved now. 

I know, now, memories aren’t all bad.

. . . .

I sat sprawled out on the couch, my small hand in a bowl of potato chips, phone on belly, gazing longingly at the TV screen.