tired yet? ||cashby||

Chapter 7

A loud, obnoxious banging on my door literally scared me awake. With a jump, my heart pounding in anxiety, I hopped out of bed and opened the door. Sophie stood there, looking like she had a thousand other places she'd rather be.

"Get up already, god, it's like 11:30. Mom wants you to do your chores," she huffed, then stared at me a second. "Why're you sleeping in so late?" she asked. What was I supposed to tell her?

"I was up late, reading," I mumbled, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Why would you waste your time like that?" she asked, then rolled her eyes. "Oh, I forgot, it's not like you have anything better to do," she muttered, stomping back up the stairs. My body drooped a little with her words, and I stared at the ground. She was right, I knew. They were always right.
Tugging my old clothes off, I pulled on a clean set and dragged myself up the stairs, the happiness completely gone from last night. Everything felt bad after listening to that, and a permanent frown etched its way onto my face.

In the kitchen, my family was all working. Sundays were usually considered 'family days' which meant that everyone pretended to tolerate me for a few hours while cleaning and making a big dinner together. Even Michael was helping, going about the floor with a broom. My father stared out the window above the sink monotonously, peeling vegetables. He liked to cook sometimes on the weekends, even if his face portrayed one of a man who just wished he could go back to the couch and watch football. Silently, I wondered what he was thinking. My mom stirred a pot of something, and looked back at me when I shut the basement door.

"Do the dishes," was all she said, and turned back to whatever she had going on atop the stove. Sighing, I walked over to the dishwasher and started unloading it, stacking bowls inside each other and racking wine glasses. My whole body missed the way the night felt, like it was some sort of safe haven away from daytime emotional struggles. There was a strained, pushy feeling in the air up here, like we all secretly knew that none of us wanted to be here. Rubbing some sleep from my eyes, I continued, and started drying a pan off.

Afterwards, I walked across the kitchen to put it away. Before I even noticed, my mom was picking up the pot of boiling water, and haphazardly moving it to the table, which I stood right in front of. Her right foot slammed down on the floor in front of me, ultimately stopping the water from sloshing everywhere. With wide eyes, I tried to be apologetic in expression.

"Alan, can you please not always be in the way?! I almost spilled this!" she fumed, and I sidled away, shoving the pan into a random spot and hurrying around the other side to finish up.

"Yeah," Michael muttered. Suddenly, everyone was looking at me with this expression like 'wow, Alan, just wow', and I couldn't understand how one little accident had turned into this. Everyone was always looking for a reason to hate me, and, of course, I made a perfect little path for them. Why couldn't I just be normal? Think good thoughts, I reminded myself. Be positive. All that mind over matter stuff was useless when I couldn't evens find my own mind. So, after finishing up the dishes, I tried to escape back to my room.

"Uh-uh, it's family day. Stay up here," my mom ordered.

"What am I supposed to do?" I sighed. Bad question.

"I've got more chores that need to be done," she shrugged, handing me a list. My eyeballs wanted to pop right out of my head. There were at least 15 things on that list! Exasperated, I shoved it in my pocket and started dusting windows. On what planet was this family bonding time? Who in their right mind in this house was enjoying themselves? Not my dad. Certainly not me.

•••

6 hours, 11 chores, and one awkward family dinner later, I was ready to just crawl up in a hole and never come out again. It would feel warm, and sheltered, and far away from here. I'd just been reminded the entire time how much everyone here really doesn't like me. I mean, there wasn't much to like, I knew that, but I tried to be amiable with everyone. No one here really cared for what I had to say, so, by Hour 2, I had shut my mouth for good, keep every word behind my clamped lips. My chest felt tight, like it didn't want to let me breathe. All I knew was that I couldn't wait to leave. I couldn't wait to be so incredibly done with this place.