LIGHT

Chapter 2

The burnt orange haze shown from the backs of my eyes lids found me first. Blurred remnants of last night's scenes, during which time both me and the stars lost shine, flashed across the streaks of light beamed from my bedroom window.

    I managed to pry open the left lid first, using every ounce of energy I could to bench press the eye-crusted weight. I could only imagine what I looked like: one eye open, two lips laid slanted and half wide, with three more seconds left before my alarm went off, like the bells of the cathedral.

    God, just let the batteries be dead or something, I begged beyond words. But my pillow case taunted me instead, wrestling the unbrushed scalp of hair. If it had a mind of it's own, it would've fought back the Etch A Sketch shake my head gave next, desperately trying to erase last night from memory. I just needed five more minutes to—

    "DING.DING. DING. DINIG. DING."

    "Were you not even listening?" I sarcastically joked with the Man upstairs, while waiting for my dad to waltz his way into my room to further add to the noise.

    "Rise and shine, slugger!"

    Speak of the devil.

    "Come on, let's get a move on! I know you don't want to spend your special day tangled between those sheets all morning, do you?" The rhetoric staining my father's attempt to get me excited about turning sixteen made me need the shower I could hear calling my name.

    "One minute, dad. Promise," I fibbed, folding fold after fold back over my head. The dark crimson shades of my comforter served as the perfect shield, protecting me from my dad and arch nemesis: the damn sun.

    I really need to lay off the late-night Marvel Comics before bed, I thought to myself, realizing how much like the overdramatic, theatrical Thor I was starting to resemble.

    Arch nemesis is even too lame for me to use. Why couldn't I sound more like Tony Stark; be more like him? Yeah, we all know that Thor is the Viking god with the gift of immortality and that oversized toy hammer he swings around willy-nilly, like Nicky—the boy I babysit—at bath time. But Tony, see, he's the real hero. He's got brains, born charism, and the courage to lead. Although, I could deal without the flash and boastful arrogance. Those traits are just not one's I can emulate. But to have the power to will others to want to follow me, want to listen to me, would be the only birthday gift I would need.

    What I would give to just be seen.

"Come on, Zain. Get up! Mom's whipping up this big feast of a breakfast for you. Let's get a move on, slugger." My dad's voice cut through the thick cotton covering my disgust, like that one fedora wearing creep with the freaky finger nails. Man, that guy creeps me out. But he would've been a cake walk compared to the Twilight Zone I was subjected to last night.

    "Alright. Alright. I'm coming." I bargained. But the warm giggles floated from my father's caring tone helped defrost the cold shoulder I threw his way. "But can you stop calling me slugger, Dad? I don't even play baseball, or any sport, for that matter. Plus, you're not Andy Griffin, and I'm not The Beave".

    I couldn't help but come up for air with a smile from the childish, cotton fortress I caved myself in to listen to the rant my movie buff of a father was about to go on—full speed.

    "Now you listen to me, junior. Those shows, though both classics in their own right, are two totally separate TV shows with noticeably different storylines. For instance..."

    "Oh, give it a rest, Rick. The boy doesn't want to spend the first few hours of his birthday listening to you go on and on about old movies and what not." My mother—the sensible one—came to my rescue, yet again saving me from the vile, suffocating constraints of my dad's tireless obsession with retro, family classics.