d.u.i » niall horan a.u (on hold atm)

o n e

A heavy sigh fell from my lips as I sharpened yet another one of my dad's fifty-thousand pencils, which he requested me to do for him while he went out on a call. I rolled the slim, wooden object between my fingers, allowing the blades inside of the molded ninety-nine cent piece of plastic to do their job.

I acknowledged my mom, who had her head in the brochure for the University of California I had gotten in the mail. She's been slumped over the plethora of college brochures sitting in her lap for the past two hours. The features of her face were tight and clenched, her brow furrowed as she eagerly looked over the page.

Her eyes slowly scanned over the text and photo's that lay on the glossy paper before wetting her finger quickly with her tongue to flip the page. "You know, I'm really liking this one, I like it better than the others."

"You've said that about every one you've looked at." I teased, blowing on the tip of the freshly sharpened masterpiece before setting it in the pile with the others. She rolled her eyes as she flipped the page again, shaking her head at my smart remark.

"Alyssa, you really have to get looking at these. Next August will be here before you know it."

I nodded as if I were actually listening, watching her run the rose gold ballpoint pen across her bottom lip. She's always bombarding me with the fact that she wants me to go to college to become a writer, or something in the journalism aspect; I don't understand it.

College is a waste of time, if you want me to be honest. You're giving up, at the most, four years of your life to go sit in a classroom and study a certain career. Isn't the whole purpose of your highschool graduation to celebrate that you made it through twelve years of agonizing hell? There's so many people that have gotten somewhere in their lives without college; In my eyes, it's bullshit.

I shifted my eyes to the television, which was trying desperately to give a decent picture to the screen, yet failing as it flickered from a clear image to a static one within seconds to eachother. My dad always keeps it on the news to keep himself updated on what's happening; I didn't understand it, considering he's usually on the scene while it's being broadcasted, but we're still forbidden to touch the remote that he has sitting evenly on the corner of his desk.

It's almost gotten to the point of insanity. I know every meteorologists' name, and I know the two who broadcast live at the desk. They're always bickering at eachother; it's quite entertaining, actually. On the screen now was Jeffery Goodman, my favorite.

The guy never failed to put a smile on my face, half because of his wrinkled features, or the way he stumbles over his words everytime the camera is put on him, and half because his toupee looked like a rain cloud. It's ironic; The weather man with the cumulonimbus toupee.

It's sad that I've grown to know the channel so well. I guess that's what happens when you're stuck in your fathers office most of the time. Growing up, I never really got a childhood. My mom and dad had split things off for a while, so my dad had custody of me. Everyday after school, I got to sit in this vacant concrete room, watch Jeffery Goodman on channel 8, and color in my "My Little Pony" coloring book. Yes, being the sheriffs daughter has its list of perks, however anything to do with this room wouldn't be considerable for list application.

The only somewhat interesting aspect of my day's in this hell hole are when I sneak open the tab on my dad's computer, which leads to the buildings security camera's all around the perimiter of the institution. The black and white images can toy with your mind though, especially when you turn on camera 21, which leads to the holding cells of the dillusional, the psychotic, the twisted-

The cells of what us around here call, "the abnormal."

I've had nightmares from the images. Sometimes, the pixelated scenes that you see will replay throughout your mind during the night, depending on how bad they are. That's the only reason my dad disallows us to play around with the cameras; Camera 21.

I heard the concrete footsteps coming from outside the door before it soon swung open, the rusted hinges scream's peircing my ears as my dad's broad frame took up most of the door way. His mouse brown mop of hair was sopping wet from the rain that had been taking over the city for the past couple of hourse, his uniform dripping as well.

My mom got up quickly, grabbing him a hand towel to dry is face off, aswell as his fogged glasses. He rubbed the red cloth over his flushed cheeks and forehead before giving her a small peck on the cheek. She sat back down, picking up another fresh stack of brochures to keep her busy. I watched as he grabbed one of the sharpened pencils between his two calloused fingers, praising me with a warm smile.

"You know, this deserves a reward," He asked, his hoarse voice echoing througout the room as he examined the evidence of my talented work.

"Sure, what do I get?" I replied.

He hasn't rewarded me in a long time, the last time being a trip out to Brewsters Ice Cream Parlor. I remember he used to always take me and let me pick the Dinosaur Sundae Explosion. We would sit on the red bench underneath the pick-up window while I shared every other bite with him, acting as if the spoon were an airplane. Considering my ten year old hands couldn't move very steadily, the plane would suddenly make a crash landing on the hairs of his upperlip and chin; We always made sure to order extra napkins.

He swung the sterling silver ring of keys infront of his face, his smile still visible through the fluctuation of the silver, copper and golden objects.

"The passenger seat along side of me tonight."

x x x x x || A/N || x x x x x

This is such a boring chapter, I'm sorry that it's really eventless. Keep Camera 21 in the back of your mind, it might come into play later on in the story. The next chapters will be much more appealing, I promise. Please vote and comment!