The Butterfly Effect (Rewritten)

Chapter Three - Ripped Wings

In the weeks that followed, Depression coiled itself around me like a snake squeezing the air from its prey. It was harder to find reasons to get up in the morning. Even talking or moving made me want to hide myself away and sleep to escape. On my latest progress report I discovered my grades slipping, but what was the point in caring when I knew it was a lost cause? Each effort I put into studying failed. I couldn't remember the lines I read and going back to reread them only frustrated me further. I just wanted it to stop.

Jason and I weren't talking, but that wasn't a surprise. When he fought with Harper, he'd go radio silent. He'd wait for Harper to cool down, then resume our friendship. The situation was kind of screwed, and half the time I wasn't certain why I bothered being friends with him. I suppose I didn't want to lose the only person I'd known all my life. People come and go, but Jason always came back.

Sundays were my family's lazy days since all the household chores took place on Saturdays. I laid in my bed on my phone and stroked Rusty's fur with my free hand. He purred with his eyes shut. Most of my days were like this. The last thing I expected was for my mom to call me downstairs. My mom and sister were standing nearby, but my eyes landed on the larger figure by the front door.

"Emory." My dad stepped closer.

He aged while he was gone. Crows feet lined the corners of his eyes, he'd lost weight in his stomach, and his black hair grew speckled with gray.

I froze, my grip tightening on the stair rail. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He hesitated. "Your mother invited me to dinner."

"Dinner?" I echoed in disbelief. I cast wide eyes to my mom. "Dinner?"

She never flinched. "We're going to try family therapy next week. Your father will be staying in the guest room until then."

"Emory-" he tried.

"No," I cut him off, "I meant what I said that day. Every word. You guys wanna try therapy be my guest," I laughed, "but I'm staying home."

The stranger in the room attempted to speak. "Emory-"

"You could have killed me!" I yelled. "I almost died! Does that mean anything to you? I can't get into cars anymore without shaking because of you! But by all means, let's tell the therapist it was black ice! Let's all keep pretending it was my fault when we all know who really ruined our lives! Screw all of you!" I ran back up the stairs to my room.

With a heavy slam that shook the walls, I locked the door and hid in my room. My vision blurred and I couldn't fathom why until tears ran down my cheeks. I wiped my face with my sleeves. A glimpse of the bandage on my wrist was all it took for my eyes to trail to the bowl where my blade hid.

I shook my head and advanced toward my closet. It was there, beneath a few piles of shirts, I found the Penny board Aunt Jeanie had bought me last Christmas. The cool mint color of board remained pristine with few spots of dirt from the tracks of my shoes. The pink wheels were in similar condition. I emptied out my backpack and replaced the contents with the penny board. I tucked my phone in my back pocket and threw on a flannel to beat the chill outside. With a brief glance behind me, I shouldered my backpack, opened my window, and climbed out onto the roof.

I shinnied down the tree beside our house and took off. When I made it to the end of the street, I slowed to a jog and stopped to catch my breath. After I had recovered I slipped the Penny board from my backpack and stepped on. I wobbled at first, then regained my balance as muscle memory kicked in. I pushed with my left foot and allowed the board to carry me. The tension in my shoulders decreased the further away my house was. I could feel my troubles slipping as the air brushed my face. They weren't forgotten, but they edged to the back of my mind with the help of welcomed distractions.