Fearless Beings

Chapter 22

Tom's POV:
~~~~~~~~~~

"Bye, Mum," I say, waving. She turns around, smiles, and walks out of the front door.

I wait for a good five minutes before I open the door and peek outside, making sure Karen has left already. I look either way of the street. Satisfied with the silence I get, I close the door and run upstairs to my parents' bedroom.

I slide open the familiar drawer, and start searching again for answers to non-existent questions. I just know that I have to know something that I don't know about.

Alright, maybe I'm not being rational. Maybe Karen is a bit salty around Mia as a result of an encounter I don't know about. But, then again, Mia said she had never met Karen before. It just doesn't makes any sense.

Another question: Why does my dad never speaks of Mum anymore? If ever?

Maybe if I can find a journal somewhere or something that proves... proves what, Tom? You're being stupid.

I stand up. These drawers hold nothing more but albums and memories snatched and kept by a flash of light emerging from a machine...

"Dammit," I mutter, slamming my fist on Karen's dresser. I look at myself in the mirror and I see bags under my eyes from the amount of sleep I'm getting these days. Or, to be more precise, lack of.

The small drawer in her dresser slides forward a little from the force I put in my punch. I frown and wrap my fingers around the small knob. It's polished and cold. I try to pull it open but it's stuck.

I huff, frustrated already. With one leg against the side of the dresser and my fingers wrapped around the small knob, I pull full force. It creaks horribly and I have to stop myself from letting go of the knob to cover my ears.

Finally, it snaps open. I rummage through the contents; an old, dust-covered dictionary, an old copy of King Lear and a faded blue notebook. I touch it and it sticks slightly to my finger. The cover is stained, like someone spilled coffee accidentally on it.

I take it out, shut the little drawer and run out of my parents' room to mine.
My nose crinkles when I turn to the first page. The handwriting is cursive, and the pages are a little cranky and yellowed.

I start reading the first few pages.

Dear Diary,

I'm fine, I think. Frank was acting a little eccentric today. I couldn't tell why. Maybe it was home trouble? Either way, I figured that he'll tell me when he's comfortable enough.

Natalie noted Frank's queer behaviour today, too. She asked if I knew where it branched from, I told her I didn't. But even if I did, I wouldn't have told her.

Melanie told me about her "ludicrous" mother, and how she treated her. 

Anyway, today was progress.

I didn't feel like a failure. Not all day, at least. But I figured another way today. To end it all.

Maybe all I'll need this time is duct tape and a simple pocket knife. And no one will stop me.

My mum forced me into a therapy a week ago, as you can see. They said I'm  in a "fragile condition and any peer pressure may break me". Whatever that meant.