The Storms Of August

Chapter Three: Father Of Mine

I had come to the conclusion at around one thirty in the morning that I was not going to fall into slumber any time soon. I was plagued by restlessness and thoughts about her. These thoughts eventually became my lullaby, but the first few nights it was like being hit with a ton of bricks every time I bunkered down. The moon floated across the sky like a child's lost balloon hour after hour as I tossed and turned under my covers and made use of my time by playing with the cold shadows of the night. The moonlight from one window turned childhood toys on my shelves  into monstrous beasts while the other was a blank slate for my imagination. Bunnies, crocodiles, and the fist of a rock giant crushed the dark figures for an indefinite amount of time. I may be almost eighteen, but being alone in the night brings out the child in me. Sometimes I just stared up at the texture of the plaster ceiling and would find her somehow. When this was happening, I didn't feel anything but an attraction toward her. All thoughts had the innocence of early Sunday mornings and fuzzy critters that live in the forest. Nothing was all that complicated at first, even after I knew more than her name and that she was, for the lack of a better word, sexy as hell. But on that cool night just a few chirps away from the crack of dawn, I only thought about who she could be. I did not think about who she was for I did not know that was a twisted and slim line to walk on, especially under her influence. I wanted to know her likes, dislikes, dreams, nightmares, and fears most of all.

The fears buried under all the shit people show you can tell you who a person really is. They can flex their muscles, show you they got the latest iPhone, or talk as much as they want and of course that will reveal something about someone. Yet you still don't know if that part of them is true, false, or the body bag of something else. People are like icebergs, only ten percent is above water. The other ninety is what takes down the Titanic. Phobias root in the waters where all fish are blind, you don't see it but you can bet your ass it's there. Take clowns for example. About ten percent of adults are afraid of clowns. I'm afraid of clowns. Sure it's just a man in makeup and strange clothes that happens to be a highlight in haunted houses and horror flicks, but is that what they're really afraid of? No. These sorts of people believe in the honesty of themselves and/or others. When you question the candidness of a stranger, worries buried in your head come to the surface. People rely on facial expressions to read thoughts, feelings, and intentions. Not being able to read those things through all the makeup immediately raises red flags. I'm afraid of a lot of things, spiders, death, small spaces, I could go on for days; but this story isn't about me, now is it.

I found myself snagging the throw blanket off my bed and lifting the window to the roof. I carefully ducked my head and slowly swung my leg over the windowsill to the other side. The chill in the air gave me goosebumps and my feet stiffened against the asphalt beneath them. I shivered as I sat down with my blanket sheltering me from the slight breeze. The moon shined brightly over downtown in the distance with the stars in the sky to keep it company and the crickets to sing to them. I liked it. It was quiet but not to the point of silence where my brain feels the need to fill a void. It had probably been close to fifteen minutes of me and nature getting acquainted while I looked unsuccessfully for constellations before there was a disturbance. What sounded like hard wheels were rolling smoothly down the road in front of my house. I raised myself to my elbows, ignoring the slight agitation the sandpaper texture of the asphalt shingling brought to my skin. From behind the trees, a person appeared riding on a skateboard with lights taped under the board. They rode calmly and lazily as they held what looked like a bottle in a bag loosely at their side; their perfect sidekick to a slow ride down Pine Street and what lurks in the shadows. The lone wolf was wearing a black hoodie and dark pants, maybe jeans, with a pair of shiny high tops that reflected light off a lamp from a nearby driveway. They were looking down as if looking in the pavement they were chasing for an answer while they held the top of the contents of their bag to their lips absentmindedly. I was captivated by the sudden activity for some unknown reason. It's like when you're taking a test when someone sneezes and almost everyone says 'bless you'. Manners do not increase in silence, but the stimuli of something else to draw your attention to is appealing. I was still watching when they looked up from over the edge of their board, and I felt that I had been caught in the act, like I was guilty of something I would soon need to pay for. Even in the blackest of surroundings I was not concealed completely from overactive eyes. They stopped in their tracks and kicked the tail of their board to their fingertips before taking curious steps into my lawn.