Therapy » m.c

[2] Hemmings

"Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment."

-Haruki Murakami

. . . . .

Michael

I would actually put an effort into complementing how much cleaner the neighborhood looks, if I hadn't previously walked four and a half miles from Briar Oaks. I simply grew tired and impatient of waiting and decided to take matters into my own hands. Eliza had to go back in for another shift, so after her, I made a start home.

The weather hasn't changed much, except for the heavy rain pounding down onto my back. My mind chose to forget about the awful clinging feeling of the damp clothes against my skin half way into walking and the same goes for the sloshing of rain water in my now ruined leather boots. It's kind of hard to manage 55° weather in only a thin black shirt and the usual ripped skinny jeans. If I would have known that my mom wouldn't pick me up, I would have thought out my outfit more efficiently.

Who am I kidding? I am 99.9% positive that I wouldn't have given two shits about what I was wearing. The other .1% is irrelavent, because I just thought it would make me sound smarter.

Ms. Richardson from across the street, decided it would be a great time, even though the earth was practically giving water to her plants, to hose down her own garden. I evade any possibilities for a conversation with her by crossing the street. You can't blame a guy for not wanting to speak to an old woman about unimportant things like painting her house a different color than the cobalt blue it already is or helping her out around the garden.

As I approach the graveled pathway leading into my house, I hear my voice being called out past the sound of the falling showers. Spinning around, I find it to be none other than little old Ms. Richardson waving at me with her soiled gardening gloves. I send a wave back, before approaching the front door.

Reaching up towards the suspended pot of daisies hanging on the porch roof, I dig until I feel the cold metal of a key we always keep hidden in case of emergencies. Wiping the dirt onto my jeans, I slide the spare key into the keyhole, turning the lock and twisting the knob.

The door opens and I quickly move to the keypad hanging on the wall. Entering in the right combination of numbers, I manage to successfully disarm the alarm. I let out a short sigh, realizing I haven't taken a breath since opening the door.

"Mom?" I yell, annoyance clear in my voice. "I'm here, but it's not like you're here anyway." The silence in the house already leads me to expect that I'm alone in here. Though the thought dissipates, as I hum quietly to myself, intentionally trudging my boots against the wood flooring, making sure to leave behind a trail of mud tracks. "You know, it's not like it was raining or anything..."

Throwing my bag against the kitchen island, I notice a note stuck on the counter:

"Sorry I couldn't pick you up. Hope you'll understand. I'll be late again. Dinner's in the fridge.

Love,

Mom"

Typical.

I press the pedal underneath the trash bin, crumbling the note and tossing it in.

At once, it hits me.

My hooded eyes feel near to closing. It's almost as I feel the drowsiness slowly taking over.

Thinking it must be a headache from lack of hydration, I reach into one of the cabinets, pulling out a glass. Pushing it against the dispenser pedal, I fill the glass half full before gulping it down. Shaking my head as the rush of water slides down my throat, the awful feeling has only now become more prominent than before.