Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

Two Months Later

October 28th, 2019

I know Mom ducked out with the full intention to do so.

"I need to help Grandma set up. She has already been kind enough to offer us her place." She provided an excuse for my silent refusal the other night.

Grandmother's place in Wichita, Texas until Mom finds some foothold in the rushing sand, gets employed and stops hovering around the liquor cabinet every night before sleep.

It almost feels like the house burst into life the exact moment every soul under its roof faced their untimely death.
The sound of shoes dragging against the floor, furniture being pulled out of place and then pushed back in again with a "She didn't say she is taking any of those".

Even Dad's office had its windows opened and its old gloom aired out. He is currently in a meeting with his lawyer in the same one.

The Baxters clean up after themselves.

As I look around, a morbid grin stretches across my face.

I was in the same hall, across the same room, seated in the same chair waiting for my turn to speak just as I was on my first day to Eastwood Oaks.
The start and the end. The making and the undoing.
At this point, it feels like a massive and taunting lie, a cruel joke being made at my expense.

The doors to Dad's office open wide and the starchy white man in his late 40s with greed glinting in his eyes walks straight out in an entrancing gait, his assistant following him close behind.

My father and I make eye contact and both look away instantly.
The declaration of separation has slid a filter away from between us. Our misogyny doesn't feel compromised when we both shy away from each other.
It is the only thing that gives me relief these days.

"Your mother had me informed that we are due for a talk?" He speaks first and I almost laugh.
"Yes, yes. I was to return to you the keys to the car. She has refused to take it."
Much like she has refused to take most things.

"Well, I am not taking it back. I'm cleaning the clutter and I have no use for it." He puts his hands behind his back.

Do you include your family in the clutter as well?

"I'm afraid she won't take no for an answer." I sound absolutely dead.
"Then you take it."
"Sorry?"
"Yes." He nods. "You take it. I give it to you. And you know you will have more use of it than I ever will."
I cannot come up with an answer.

"When is your appointment though?" he asks as if he cares.
"Shortly," I say.
"Then you should be leaving by now."

I fail to come up with an answer, again.

"Don't worry. I have it under control."

Little does he know, control is the only thing he has at all.

Dr. Almendárez always keeps complaining about how I tap my feet.
She says it is a sign of restlessness, maybe even escapism. I use it as a method to distract myself and others, deviating them from my true personality and aggravating those who are around me and testing their limits, like challenging them to a "To stay or not to stay".

I think it's a bunch of horseshit coming from a woman that taps the butt of her pencil against the spine of the file on her lap after every sentence she finishes violently writing on it.

My father was the one to pull me out of Behavioral Modification in the first week of school. Apparently, Miss Jane had made a phone call and surrendered herself.

"You need to talk to someone," she said.
I knew she was giving up on me. She made it seem like she never gave up on anyone.

"But I am talking to you," I argued back.
I wished she could see how much of an effort she was going to put me through if I had to trust someone again, tell them who I am again and what happened to me again and again.
The lines I had committed to memories had started to blur and I was making things up.