Matriarch

Birds

Dreams
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- Langston Hughes

Nya
    "Stop playing that damn game and come eat dinner!" My mom's shouting voice is muffled by my headphones, and I roll my eyes at it. I may have the loud sounds of a fighting game in my ear, but that doesn't mean she won't be louder than the fucking screams of hell when she yells.
    "Just a sec!" I call back. Can't she let me have just a few hours to myself? Christ!
    "Nya! Come eat dinner!" Shit. This time it's my dad's deeper, louder voice, and I know I've gotta go. My dad had gotten me this really cool new game for my birthday, Dire IV, and I've been dying to play it. But I only got in five minutes of playing time, and now they're calling me to do something else. My service never stops.
    "I said, I'll be down in a sec!" I call down to my dad. Quickly, I save and quit my game and turn off my Xbox. Running downstairs as quickly as I can without tripping, I'm faced with more yelling.
    "Don't stomp down the stairs, girl!" My mom yells. Her name is Tasha, and I call her that more than mom. I mean, she's barely a mother.
    "Don't yell at her! She's running down cause you shout at her for being late all the fucking time!" My dad shouts in Tasha's face. Dad's a great father, and Tasha only makes his life harder. I've no idea why they haven't gotten divorced yet. Everyday, like right now, they yell at each flutter again and again and never talk about what's bothering them. They just yell again and again, louder and louder until one of them stomps out of whatever room they're in and goes to bed.
    I sit down, pick up my fork, and quietly being to eat the spaghetti and meatballs in the plate in front of me. I try my best to stay out of the never ending arguments, I really do. But, surprise surprise, Tasha didn't like that.
    "Girl, don't eat before praying! We raised you Christian, you little shit." In case you haven't noticed, she's pretty much forgotten my name by this point. But when she starts calling me 'girl' it means she's getting really angry. Her yelling is louder too. This one's going to end badly, I can tell. I shrink lower in my chair, really trying to avoid conflict.
    However, Tasha getting louder wasn't what my dad got really mad about. And mad was an understatement. His eyes narrowed, the chocolate irises just a slit. His lips tightened into a thin line, and he sat up too straight, his palms flat on the table. "Tasha! If you call my daughter that one more time, I will call your mother, and she will escort you out of my house!" My dad's booming voice echoed through the house. When my dad yelled like that, it seemed like the universe had been paused, and time was away from the keyboard.
    He had this kind of presence in whatever room he entered, with his muscled everything, 6'5" height, and deep voice, it was hard for people not to notice him. Everything noticed him. And everything had been placed on hold as we all processed what my father said. He never threatened to call Gramma. She was a little old woman who loved Dad and I, and knew her daughter was an asshole. She knew all Tasha's weak points, and didn't hesitate to use the power she had over her daughter. Tasha was scared of her, and rightly so. She was as stunned as I was, and for a second or two, the house was quiet.
    Then she opened her damn mouth.
    "Don't you ever fucking yell at me! You and that fucking kid wasted my life!" She gestured wildly to me, her face red with anger. "I wanted to go places, to travel and see the world! Then you showed up and it all went to shit. You are the worst mistake I ever made, Jamison Rodgers! Go to hell!" Tasha stood up so fast her chair was knocked over, and I flinched, but she didn't. She glared at my dad, and then me, with an expression of such hate if I didn't know better I'd think we just murdered her kid. Then she grabbed her wallet, phone, and a couple of clothes, informed us that she was going to her sister's, and slammed the front door.

                                    *   *   *

    I flung myself onto my bed, bouncing on the springy mattress. Staring at my ceiling usually brings me comfort, and so I do, my eyes tracing the swirling, curving lines of the mural I'd painted when I was seventeen. I'd gotten tired of looking at the blank ceiling on days like this, when Tasha and Dad's arguing got especially bad, so I went to an arts and crafts store, bought some paint and brushes, and spent the day in my room, painting my ceiling. I'd unintentionally created what I was feeling when I painted it, which is something all artists say happen but I'd never thought was true, so watching the swirling, bright colors always makes me feel free. It looks kind of like the sky, with mostly blues and whites, touches of yellow here and there.
    Scattered randomly, I'd placed angular, stretched out 'M's in purples and browns and greens. They looked like birds, and, though simple, were my favorite part. I loved the mural, with all my heart. I never thought I could paint something, but the feeling of creating whatever I wanted and it all, somehow, being cohesive... I loved it.
    The day I finished the mural I decided I wanted to design art for video games. I loved painting, but the fantasy, sci-fi, questing, fighting worlds of games were what I really loved. And that fact was the only one I knew was true.
    And so I stared, the very corners of my lips curling into the faintest of smiles. My eyes traced the colors of my precious birds, and Tasha, and Dad, and my terrible French grade, and all the frights of life were carried away on the wings of those birds. For a moment, the shortest moment in history, I was content.

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It's-a me, Mario! Or not, anyway, I personally don't like long A/N's, so I'll try to keep it short and sweet. Please comment what you think! I've never written a book like this before, so I'm extremely new to this sort of writing. Also: Poems at the beginning, yay or nay?
- SAND