(COMPLETED STORY)
Uncorrected draft, under revising.
While everyone believes he's dead, Isla is still determined that her younger brother is alive and in need of help somewhere. Isla's brother, Grayson, had a mental obsession with clues and patter...
The morning sun shined through the windows, displaying subtle orange stripes on the white walls. Shadows of light traveled through the transparent vase on the desk, fresh tulips and water occupying to the brim, resulting a shrine of rainbow. Elvis Presley's Suspicious Minds buzzed loudly in my ears. It was a bad habit, when I wanted to somehow disconnect myself from the world I put on headphones and listened to music, very loudly. I felt like the louder the music played the farther away I was from anybody else. My eyes were closed, blind from anything but the black insides of my eyelids.
Unwittingly, my parents had called the school to ask what time we would be back from the false trip. Of course, knowing nothing of any Notre-Dame trip, the principal answered with an oblivious "Mrs. Ferris, we don't know where your children are. I mean they're certainty not in class." Sometimes things didn't go as expected, they never did. While Maman was torn on who to put the blame on, Joseph had his critical finger pointed towards Nick. My stepfather put the blame on his son believing that he did the wrong.
Despite the truth, I was the one to blame, Nick let his father believe he was the one with the idea. My stepbrother took the fall believing that Joseph still saw him as the reckless rebel that he was before, Nick said that his father wouldn't believe him even if he told him the pretty truth. Teenager gone rogue, I assumed, Joseph thought about his son.
From what I saw, Nick and Joseph weren't exactly buddies. Sarcasm was usually the way Nick addressed his father with, a lousy manner that I found absolute unnecessary. Instead of trying to get along with his father, solving the reticence between them, Nick continued to push him further away. It wasn't my business, and I knew that, but somehow for some ridiculous reason I couldn't stand to see them in such a state.
Nick may have felt that Joseph had now put him second after his wife, my mother, he may have felt that he was now second priority. Maybe Nick had thought, after his mother's death, that it would be just him and his father. Furthermore, he may have noticed that he wasn't getting as much attention as he wanted or had before. He wasn't going to beg for it, but secretly —somewhere not to be found, he craved his father's compelling consideration.
That was the moment when I realized something that I hadn't thought about before, maybe Nick rebelled against his father for attention and care in return. A hopeless call for help, an unheard and unseen and desperate S.O.S signal. Somewhere inside me empathy roamed its way into my heart, a wrenching feeling of complete understanding.
Maybe that was the unexpected reason of my rather determined search for Grayson, I needed a shrine of truth. That was my signal for help, in my own way— I wanted someone to understand me. What I was going through and someone to simply tell me it was all going to be alright. That things were being figured out. Someone to tell me there was hope, all I wanted was that that breath of relief. I had finally came to learn Nick's reason behind his "transformation" merging with the worst version of himself. For stealing a ten-thousand dollar painting from a closed museum, all to make him feel cool or something.
****
In the midst of stack of papers, a complete chaos in the cardboard box, I found what I was looking for. Brown leather wrapped the papers of my used journal like a warm blanket, the first half of the pages filled with my streaked handwriting. I tossed the cardboard back in the corner of my closet, returning to the notebook. The journal in my hands had been the only place I relied on to keep my secret thoughts and feelings truly secret. It was before Grayson's disappearance, before anything had happened. When my life was so-called normal; basketball practice on Sunday nights, weekly sleepovers at Madison's, occasionally helping Maman with the cooking, and hugging my little brother goodnight everyday. Now, none of that happened anymore. I flipped to my first entry, utterly unaware of what I had written a year ago:
Madison and I began a deep conversation today, something we hadn't really covered before. It revolved mostly around the topic of money and happiness, could money buy you happiness? I argued that it couldn't while Madison strongly disagreed, I enjoyed hearing her opinions. She said things like: "If I was a millionaire I would buy a heave of books, because books make me happy. When I read those books and put them on the bookshelf I feel happy."
Even though I understood what she meant, I couldn't help but lightly contend. 'I know what you're getting at, but it depends. How do we define happiness, what level of happiness are we talking about? Buying things can make you feel glad and joyed, but does it make you feel truly happy? I even quoted Democritus, "happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold, happiness dwells in the soul."
I could see she looked impressed, but Madison didn't look like she was going to quit at that. "Okay, listen to this. What if a woman had a daughter, and that daughter's heart was failing. The woman payed a lot of money for he daughter to receive a donated heart. When her daughter lived her mother was happy, not glad or joyed. Who wouldn't be happy to see their child live? Nothing can top that," she finished. At that, I didn't hesitate to keep my mouth shut. Instead, I gave her a light clap followed with a chuckle, she grinned and nodded.
I flipped the journal shut, let my sitting-position drop into a drowsing sleep. My eyelids fluttered shut.
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