Sometimes Things Fall Apart

Chapter One

        Taking a deep breath, I looked around, taking in my surroundings. This was the last time I would ever be standing here, in the center of my childhood home. The tan walls and white, slightly stained carpets held more memories than I did in my own head. I walked around, peeking into every room to be certain I wasn't leaving anything behind. "I guess this is it." With a heavy sigh and light footsteps, I made my way to the front door, kicking something over.
"Huh..." Grabbing onto the wooden frame, I held a photograph up to inspect. My father, Kyle, standing to my left, one arm draped lazily over my shoulders, while my mother, Rachael, stood on my right, avoiding all contact with me, her hands clasped together and held in front of her. Both had equally large, classic 'proud-parent' smiles, looking into the camera with dead eyes. Not even four seconds after the photographer had said "all set", they both dropped the facade and left. They went on missions in space. "We're doing our best to protect the universe from highly intelligent criminals. We'll be back before you know it." Their classic goodbye speech, as I recalled, topped with a quick peck on the forehead. They were never big on the whole 'I love you' shtick.

       I looked at the teenager in the middle of the photo. Sixteen year old me, holding a diploma, tears in my eyes. I couldn't bring myself to smile for a reason I could not recall. My cheeks a rosy tint while a frown held my lips captive. I remember crying as soon as my father removed his arm; the only contact I'd had with him in almost a year. They had been gone so long and so often that they'd missed my unexpected graduation, two years sooner than planned. They had known about it. They had promised to come. I didn't have to glance at the empty metal chairs, their names on white paper held on by tape, to know they hadn't shown up.
Deadbeat parents. The universal equivalent to my parents who always claimed to be heroes. To the world, perhaps. To me, no. They were empty space, nothing important.

       When they had died, I'd been so used to them hardly being there that the news didn't faze me. I just accepted the 'next-of-kin' package I'd been given and shut the door. Within the package had been a note and a piece of plastic.

       The Galactic Federation assumes full responsibility for fallen member's next of kin when members are lost in the line of duty. Due to the sudden loss of both Kyle and Rachael Addams, the Federation extends the responsibility indefinitely, granting (F/N) Addams unlimited access to Galactic Federation funding.

Humble Apologies,

Pat & Donna Gueterman

       The piece of plastic was, according to the note, a credit card with unlimited funding. I had kept the entire package, being the sentimental fool I was, despite the fact that I had no clue what the Galactic Federation was.

       I took one final look at the photograph before I let it dangle at my side, held precariously by the very tips of my fingers. I never cared what happened to it, but a small voice in the back of my mind had always kept me from tossing it. It was the only photographic evidence I had of their existence. Nobody ever saw them, so they may as well have never existed.

       Grabbing my cell phone from my back pocket, I slid it into the front pouch of my purse and lifted the strap to my shoulder, walking to the front door. As soon as my hand made contact with the handle, I was hit with a small wave of nostalgia, remembering the first time I'd opened the door, being fooled that my parents weren't going on another mission. I'd thought they were mine forever, but I never knew that, after countless trips, the excitement of their returning would soon wear down until, eventually, it became nothing. They would come home, say their hellos, and walk to their room, talking about how many hours they had until their next mission, while I sat in the garage that, at the age of eleven, I had transformed into a fully functional lab, skipping school on a regular basis. Yet, despite all of that, I still managed to graduate Valedictorian at sixteen.

       Refusing to acknowledge the feeling of regret at having never greeted them that last time, I pulled the door open, and walked through, locking it behind me and placing the key in the mailbox for the real estate agent. The walk from the front step to my truck was short, not nearly long enough to experience regret. For that, I was thankful. With a wave, I instructed the man driving the moving truck that I was ready to leave.

       As the sound of gravel crunching beneath my wheels filled the June evening air, I never could have imagined how quickly my life was to turn around. The home disappeared from view in little time, becoming nothing more than a lot for sale.