The World Through Various Eyes

[27] What Has Been Done- (Christopher's POV)

I got in a fight with my parents once. Years ago, back when I was only ten, I told them they didn't care. I said all they ever did was work, and that they never were there for me. Initially, they brushed it off, laughing at how naive and juvenile I was for thinking only of myself and demanding constant attention. But I think it sunk in enough to a point where they worried about what I had said and whether there was any element of truth to it.

At the time, I was so upset that I ran away to my grandparents' house. It was a cold December day, much like the ones I was experiencing around this time, and I vividly remember the feeling of my little journey.

Cold, bitter wind whipped at my skin and pushed my hair every which way. My hair was longer during that time than it ever had been before. I thought of it as my own little rebellion. "They can't make me cut it," I'd think to myself victoriously. The longer it grew, the more independent or mature I thought I was I guess.

What really bothered me was that they never noticed. They never told me to do something about, and they never forced me to go to a barber. My dark hair kept growing and growing, and either they didn't care or they were just too oblivious. In the past, my parents would have freaked and demanded I cut it. Since they had been promoted to a higher job position though, they were growing more and more detached from me. This lack of attention grew faster than my hair. Much faster.

On that day, I somehow reached my grandparents' house successfully. The walk there was about thirty-five minutes long, but the fact that I didn't completely lose my way was amazing, considering the fact that I was and still am utterly devoid of directional skills.

I remember walking into that house, with its heat going and its fireplace crackling. We sat down and roasted marshmallows in front of it while I told them everything that had happened. It felt like Heaven. I was in a place where I could not only receive attention, but so much more. As an only grandchild, they practically pampered me.

Eventually, my grandmother and grandfather decided it was time for me to go home. They called my "very worried" parents to let them know about everything that had happened, and offered to drive me home. It was too dark for me to walk, and they weren't about to send me back into the cold again.

Unlike my parents, they cared enough to worry.

After getting a taste of that treatment though, I longed for it more. I guess it just highlighted the already apparent gap between what my parents were giving me and what I still craved.

Now that I'm older, I have no option of running to my grandparents' house when the going gets tough. Two years later, they moved into a retirement home for extra care. My grandfather died first, and then my grandmother. Also, my parents have been gone more and more, so they're rarely around for me to fight with.

On this day, I sat by the heater in Leslie's room, shivering incessantly and getting chills every time I thought about the weather outside. It was December 16th, and thick snowflakes were drifting steadily to the ground. Her window was fogged over with condensation, and I wiped my newly-warmed hand on its icy surface.

I was wrapped in one of her cable knit sweaters, and curled into a bit of a ball. It was surprisingly cozy, like something out of a movie. In addition, I wore a fuzzy hat, because I was too lazy to bother with her wig and it was kind of itchy anyway. All I needed was a cup of tea to warm my hands around, and I would have been like a film character. A very unique one, but a film character nonetheless.

A sudden vibrating shook me out of my daze, and I fumbled for Leslie's phone in her backpack. Her passcode was actually kind of difficult, but thankfully, I didn't have to guess it: her knowledge supplied that answer. I found it and methodically typed the password I had grown to know well.