j a k e
"George!" I shout for the eighteenth time this morning, my voice cracking from frustration. "I checked under the sink, they're not there!"
George appears at the entrance of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, giving me a sympathetic wince. I breathe through my nose, hoping that'll it'll succeed in keeping me calm, and try to refrain from ripping someone's head off.
"Well, where else could they be?" he asks me, and I want to yell that if I knew, I probably would have already found my contacts. But the whole point is I can't, ever since last night when I lost them and George convinced me I would be able to find them with a clear mind in the morning.
I've been searching for a good half an hour now.
"I don't know," I groan loudly, throwing my head back.
"Look, I'll call the eye clinic and ask them to get us another pair," he says, trying to soothe me as he obviously senses I'm beginning to come undone. "Just don't worry about it."
"What about for now?" I mumble.
"Wear your glasses."
I sigh heavily, rubbing my eyes and shaking my head. Usually, I'm okay with glasses. During the clinic, I was just too worn out to put on contacts, so I tossed on my glasses. The first time I had gotten hit with depression, I couldn't go a day without my contacts, but I guess that was more linked to the trauma than anything. However, before, I always had the choice to switch back to contacts if I wanted to. In the back of my mind, that thought always sat comfortably there, keeping me from freaking out.
I guess those type of things have always managed to keep me grounded. Just like when I was taken away from home; even though the chances were so slim and so hopeless, I had always wondered if maybe I would come home that day from school, and my dad would apologize, and my mom wouldn't be drinking, and things would just got back to normal. But when George took me in, I knew there was no way that could ever happen now, and that scared me. Just like the contacts; now that I have no choice to wear them if I get uncomfortable, it freaks me out.
"You okay?" George asks. I had almost forgotten he was standing there.
I clear my throat. "Uh, yeah. How long do you think it'll take?"
"The clinics closed today, so I'll have to leave a message," he says. "They'll get it on Monday, so hopefully by Wednesday."
I make a choking noise. "That long?"
"What's wrong with your glasses?" George asks, and then his eyes soften. "Did you have a nightmare again? Do you want to talk about it?"
I shake my head quickly. "No, I didn't have a nightmare."
"Then what's making you think about him again?"
I swallow, rubbing my neck slightly and shrugging. "I don't know." I turn to the bathroom mirror, examining my black hair, still messy from sleep, worry lines that have gotten so much less noticeable over the weeks, and eyes. Emerald green, piercing eyes.
Just like my dad's.
I shift my weight a little as my heart begins to feel a little heavy. My eyesight has always been pretty messed, and I've worn glasses most of my life, but ever since George took me in, the sight of my eye color has made me sick, and so he ordered me coloured contacts. If I ever wore glasses, I just tried to avoid the mirror as much as possible, so I didn't have to be reminded. That's what hurt the most, after all: the reminder that I'm my father's son.
George gives my shoulder a squeeze, and a small smile. "I'll call, okay? Don't stress over it."
"Yeah," I grumble. "I'm going to catch up on some sleep."
