Problematic Mindsets

Part 1. Police Sirens

**This part has been edited but some of the others have not. There will be some misspellings and some sentences that won't make sense. Please be patient as I try to edit the parts and write at the same time. It's a slow process.
Thank you. **

Rain, rain, go away...
No no, I like the rain.
The droplets knock on my bedroom window as I lay here on my bed uncomfortably cold because of the rainstorm. The blanket laying on my body isn't warm enough. And I'm getting annoyed because of the loud police sirens passing by my house. It's not uncommon, the police sirens. The sound barges through my ears, bursts through my skull, and crashes into my brain. They ring and whistle in my mind. Just seeing the lights of red and blue reflect off the white walls of my desolate room makes me think. It makes me think about the walls. Sometimes, sometimes I sit, and I stare at them.

Call me crazy; they say things to me, the walls do. All four of them. They cry to me, saying they hate being white, that they want to be colorful and full of hue. And I sit here and think what it would be like, the face plastered on oneself, to finish painting these walls a dark blue. Blue like the ocean, they'd be happy. So would I.

Its alright if you think I'm crazy now. Or do I just have a rather strong imagination?

I hear the front door open and slam shut followed by a muffled, slurred voice with a jingle of keys. Dad's home. The scent of cigarette smoke fills my room and teases me, but I shrug it off. The crying walls, with such salty tears, tell me to wait an hour so he can pass out like the usual. When the hour was up, my pair of clown feet gives me the hint to lift myself off the bed. They carry me to where the stairs begin to go downhill. Go for it, they say to me and glance up with these abnormally huge eyes. Sighing, I take the step. The stair step creaks and I feel my face cringe. After the painful journey down the staircase, I reach the bottom. Letting my body turn the corner, I see him. There he is, his limp body passed out on the living room's recliner.

Dad, or Derek James Anderson, is an ass. Dad has messy brown hair with a natural blonde highlight here and there. He has straight teeth, but god awful breath because he chain smokes and can't seem to get a grip of himself. Oh, and I almost forgot about the full bottles of cheap bourbon he tends to drink. I guess he drinks entire bottles to try and forget that he's a complete loser. The cancer ribbon tattoo, with his mother's name and the day she died, snakes around his bicep. I never knew grandma, never got to. He isn't particularly muscular, just average build, but still bigger than me. Derek the Ass also has pretty abrupt flashback problems about his childhood. It's the reason why he depends on the cigarettes and alcohol to take the pain of the past away. He works as a cashier for a local hardware store. He's into that kind of stuff.

"It's always about solving problems," he said to me as I was only six years old and still innocent to the world. He was fixing the neighbors truck that day. That's when he was sober. I think it's because he can't fix the broken pieces of childhood, that he tries to fix other broke things to make up for the abuse. And I think we both know that it's not working. I walk over and take a minute to glance at him. He has one of his many plaid shirts on, this one just happens to be gray, and he wears a pair of black jeans. His left hand hold a bottle of Scotch and the right hold a bent up photo of him and Mom. Looking at his face, tears must have ran down his face like a herd of cattle, cause they left marks. My feet look at me, and walk a couple steps closer. I take off his work shoes covered in dirt and sweat and stench, setting them aside next to the recliner he's passed out on.
My hands touch the picture of him and Mom as though it's a sheet of thin glass. I held it as if I dropped it, it would shatter, and so would I. In the picture, they were sitting at a park on a bench next to each other. Dad was looking at the camera, but Mom was looking at him. Maybe that's why he was crying. He didn't love her enough.
One of Dad's snores snaps me out of that thought. I put the dented photo of them on the table, which is next to the chair he's now snoring obnoxiously on. When my hands grab the bottle of Scotch, they grip on to it with such anger until it makes it into the trash. But I know he'll just go out and buy more. I set the old shoes by the front door, and on my way back tucked him in with a woolen blanket. My heavy feet clomp back up the stairs to my room, and the trip upstairs isn't as bad as the one going down. I can hear Dad snore from up here. Lying back down on my rather uncomfortable bed, I let out a sigh. I'm surrounded with walls crying and whining, complaining  from how boring and colorless they are. They do this in silence, but I still hear them. The rain has stopped. And so has the sirens.