Krysti

Chapter 1

Prologue

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Chapter 1

I hear the harsh sound of rubber soles slapping concrete and my own ragged breath in my ears. The moon is preparing for bed and the sun is yet to awake, leaving the world around me a deep charcoal. Little ghosts dance from my mouth and my pace slows as I round the street corner where my cliché suburban home with its white picket fence sits. Though the white paint is chipped and more than a few shingles have fallen off the roof, a small smile still spreads on my lips at the sight. I hop over the fence. The latch to the gate is long broken and the dull points only reach my hips. I walk to the front door and pause in front of a beaming ceramic squirrel, our hiding place for the house key. I remember how much I used to love it's silly features, but now it brings a frown to my face. The little thing belonged here on our porch, just like I belonged in the house. It was all either of us had ever known.

I sigh and take the house key from my cheery friend and go inside. I kick off my shoes and leave them in the general vicinity of the shoe rack which is wedged between half packed boxes, not taking the care to organize anything. We aren't going to be staying long enough for it to matter anyway. There's creaky shuffling upstairs. I suppose my mom is finally waking up or she heard me come in the front door. Maybe she was waiting for me to get back. I shake off the thought, it spreads a cold feeling through me like my blood is slowly freezing. I head into the kitchen, looking through whatever meager scraps remain. We could have at least gone grocery shopping for our last week, but mom insisted we didn't need to. I manage to scrape together an apple and a bowl of cereal and sit down just as my mother rushes downstairs. It seems she's looking for me, because she beams as soon as she sees me. The smile she wears reminds me of the ceramic squirrel. It's painted on, faked in an effort to make me feel better and it doesn't work. My mother's painted smile falters for a moment as I eat my cereal with a placid expression. I refuse to look at her.

"Honey," she starts gently, "I know this is hard but-"

"Mom," I cut her off, "We've already talked about it." She fidgets in my peripheral vision. She isn't going to let this go.

"It's really a good thing," she tries again, "I'll make a lot more money and I'll work less hours."

"I know," I sigh, "I'm happy for you mom, I am, but you can't expect me to be alright right away."

She nods slowly, like it pains her. The room is filled with silence, broken only by the occasional clink of my spoon hitting the bowl. I can feel her anxiety constricting my throat and coiling in my chest. She's staring at me like she's begging me to spare her life. I don't know what she wants me to say. What's more, I'm not sure I want to say what she wants to hear. I finish my cereal as quickly as I can and practically run to the sink, apple in hand, to avoid another moment of the uncomfortable silence. I don't look at my mom as I run out, I don't want to deal with it right now. I know that I won't like what I see in her eyes. I bite into my apple as I run up the stairs and collect my backpack, then run downstairs again, like if I run fast enough I'll be spared of any more of the tangible awkwardness. I see my mother waiting for me at the front door. She always does, but I didn't really expect it today. With everything going on, I figured being affectionate was far from both of our minds. Leave it to my mother to defy expectation.

I know she's a good mom, I've never doubted that. I also know that we're both hurting. At the same time, I want to be angry with her. I want to be mad at her and not have to deal with the guilty look in her eyes.