Rapire

two

* five years later *

I wake up in a cold sweat. Curls were sticking on the back of my neck, my mouth was dry, my hands were trembling as I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. The same nightmare that I've been having for the past five years happened again. Blue and red lights flashing. The dead eyes of my mother who laid there unmoving after the shot in her heart. Feeling myself fall down with her every time in the dream before flashing to the funereal for both. I stand there, staring down at my fifteen year old self try to be strong but failing as she makes her way up to their caskets.
After that the dream would slowly shift over to the face call I had with mom an hour or so before everything happened.

*    *    *

I shake my head at her. "No mom. You and dad deserve to be alone. Where is dad anyway?" 

My mom sighs, looking slightly troubled at this question. "He got caught up in a business call and he's been in our room for quite a while."

"Must be serious." I chime in. My mom lets out what seems to be a forced chuckle, before nodding her head in agreement,

"It is." A silence follows her statement. I try to tell what my mom is thinking but she seems to just daze off, not even looking at me anymore. I could tell that she was troubled. Her shoulders were stiff, her right eye had a slight twitch to it, and she was tapping her fingernails against the desk she sat at.

I open my mouth to say something but my mom beats me to it. "You know your dad and I love you Skye, right?" My eyebrows furrow together, but I nod at my mom as she looks up at me. "And you know we would never want anything bad to happen to you, right?"

"Yeah of course I know that." I say, as my concern grows. "Why mom?"

She gives me a soft smile. "I just want to make sure you know."

"Nia! We need to leave!" A voice yells in alarm. Dad. My mom's eyes widen as she turns around looking at the direction his voice came from.

*    *    *

The conversation would usually begin and cut off right there, but other nights I have to relive that whole conversation. I should've known something was wrong. The signs were right in front of my face. The distress in my mother's eyes, her posture, the habit she has of tapping on things when she was nervous, especially when my dad began yelling. I feel the anger at myself for not seeing the signs build up. Grabbing onto my pillow, I put it over my mouth to muffle my screams and cries of pent up frustration and anger. Even after five years it's hard to think about them and what I could've done.

I could've called the police and told them to inform the NYPD or told my aunt I felt that something was wrong. There had to have been something I could've done, but that's the past now. I can't change what happened to my parents. They're dead and I'll never be able to see, hug, laugh, smile, and make more memories with them again. I'll be holding onto memories and pictures of my parents for the rest of my life. My alarm comes on interrupting my train of thought and informing me of the time. Seven am, an hour before I have to get to work.

Putting my pillow down, I get up and make my way to the bathroom in my medium size apartment. I strip my clothes off and get into the shower, turning the water to warm. After the death of my parents I lived with my aunt until I was eighteen then I raised enough money from the tips I made, babysitting jobs, and some from the saving account I have to buy an apartment. My parents left me their money but I only used it for food, pay half of the rent, and give some of it to the charities my parents were apart of.

Stepping out of the shower, I walk out doing my usually routine. Slip underwear on, brush my teeth, comb my curly brown hair, etc. Walking out of the bathroom and into my room, I begin looking for my uniform. White or black button down and any pair of nice bottoms. I grab onto one of my white down shirts and a pair of blue jeans. Jeans first, tuck in white shirt, and slip on a pair of black vans. I walk in front of a mirror in my room, looking to make sure I looked alright for work.