Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

13

A/N: I accidentally deleted the 12th chapter last week.
Sorry.

13

The keys slide off the counter and fall on the floor with a sickening cackle. A cringe makes the insides of my nails itch.

I breathe a sigh of relief when nothing stirs in the next two seconds.

The thump has climbed down from my throat and has settled down quite uncomfortably somewhere between the lower thigh and the calf of my left leg.

A strip of light escaping from the eerily cracked door to Dad's office silently emanates a bright florescent glow, rebelling against the looming darkness of the hall. I squint to peep inside.

The familiar pile of files and pending paperwork, and Dad lurking around in his cream Valentino robe the color somewhat distorted under the light, with the receiver pressed against his ear, talking at the speed of bullets cutting through the thick winter air.

It has always been a miracle to me how he remembered to breathe in between, and an even greater miracle than air that existed in the little space the room had to offer above him.

I lug myself over the flight of stairs every thud of my injured leg against the wood making me more self-conscious.

Just a couple more stairs. Just a couple more. Just.

No one can hear you. No one wants to hear you. No one cares. No one will ask questions. Just get it over with.

I plummet face-first into my bed the way I have imagined myself falling into stormy waters from weathered cliffs into some mysterious void.

My leg immediately lets me know of its dissent. I shift uncomfortably.

There exists not a single corner in this house I adore more than the ceiling of my room.

Swan white, accented by the light gray of the walls, transforming the 15x15 bedroom into an eternity of serene gloom.

The swan white has served as my canvas a hundred different times, witnessing a million different fantasies come to virtual reality.

I have been a Power Ranger and seen myself in sick action choreography fighting evil.

When I could finally make sense of science and Mom told me one fine day that the stars are still unexplored, I saw myself in control of my spaceship, swerving past debris and planets and moons, flying to the stars with my team. Brooklyn Baxter, the first man to explore the stars.

I imagined myself falling into the ocean and dissolving into distasteful foam.

I have died a hundred different deaths, only for the euphoria of dying while still existing.

My phone buzzes with a text from Anastasia.

Are you okay? Text me when you get home. If you are driving, do not.

I grin. If only.

I just got home. I'm fine. I write back. She does not need to know. Someday she will. But not today.

A heat unfurls at the bottom of my stomach.

I got away this time. What if it happens again?

A creak makes me tense up. I sit back on my elbows, dreading the impending customary conversation.

When did you get home? How was your day? Did you see your mother? What happened to your leg?

I quickly run through the acceptable answers I can give when another voice breaks into the toughened silence.

"You always keep working."

It is a woman. But it is not my mother.

"You know it has always been my first mistress," Dad says, a slight tease in his reply.

"So you have more then?" The woman asks.

He laughs. "None as important."

The sound of skin running against skin drowns out the other noises of heavy breathing and my beating heart.

"How long till we meet again?" She asks.

"Not long."

"How are you sure? You are rarely here."

"But we have an excuse now."

She giggles.

I second guess my senses.

You are in delirium. You are in shock. You are delusional. This is not true.

A hopeful part of me prompts me to smile. This can be my parents. After all, how much of them being in love did I experience to know any better? What do I know of when time walks backwards and John Baxter becomes Johnny with an adrenaline rush and Annette 'Nancy' Baxter goes back to freckled Nancy with blue paint stuck between her fingernails?

The thought warms me up. I lay back down, my canvas in plain sight.

"When is your son coming back?"

Your son?

"I don't know. He comes and goes as he likes. As long as he is out of my way, I do not mind." The cold John Baxter makes himself known to me.

It occurs to me they do not know I am home. I sink further back into the fabric.

"Stay a little longer." The woman begs. "They can do a little longer without you. We only have tonight."

I can sense his inconvenience. "No. You should get going. I'll call Jared in. He'll drop you off."

The cold and calculative John Baxter shines through, never disappointing.

The floorboards creak again, probably my father moving downstairs.

The door to my parent's master bedroom closes. A sense of filth fills me.

I grab my phone and sift through my contacts until I am staring - through a freshly cracked screen reduced only to a memory of its former situation - at my mother's contact.

What do I say?

What is my excuse for calling at this hour or ever?

Why give her a message that I care when her nonchalance will only cause me pain and give her hope?

I dial. I dial because I'm selfish. I dial to satiate my narcissistic curiosity.

"Brooklyn?" She picks up on the third ring.

"Hello. Are you away?" The words roll out of my mouth.

"Yes, son. Grandmother was not feeling very well. I flew out to see her. Is everything alright? Do you need something?"

There is a woman in my parent's bedroom and it is not my mother.

"No. Just curious," I say, shame eating away at me.

"She was talking about you. You should visit her sometime in the summer. You have not seen her in a while."

"I will think about it when I find time. Good night."

I swiftly hang up when I hear the door swing open.

No greetings, no wishes of goodbye. All of it just rises and vanishes into the night air.

I see myself driving a fist into the wall on my canvas.

A/N: Okay then.
Okay.