The Risen

Chapter 4: Dad is on the News

        The next morning at breakfast I almost die. 

        When I first woke up, I had laid in bed for an hour, too bruised and lazy to get up.

        Eventually I got bored of sitting there, so I decided to try to get to the bathroom. Getting up was a task in itself. I could barely sit up. My stomach ached with almost unbearable pain every time I moved. I realized this was from 023 kicking me. I had a nice, splotchy black and blue bruise above my belly button.

        After I had rolled off the bed and pulled myself up so I was standing, I hobbled to the bathroom down the hall, where I assessed the rest of my body behind the locked door.

        I figured out the rest of my body didn't have any bruises, but my joints and bones were a little sore.

        Then I looked at my face. 

        My left cheek had a fist sized bruise on it. The bruise itself was deep purple and a sickly yellow. I gingerly touched it. A stupid idea. Sharp pain flared up in my cheek.

     What am I going to do? I groaned inwardly to myself. Grandma is going to ask a million questions when she sees my bruise!

        I glared at my reflection. My brown hair had a bad case of bedhead. My hazel eyes, which I inherited from my father, were droopy looking, with dark circles under them. 

        My eyes fell on a foundation bottle setting on the counter. It matched my pale complexion. I sighed, thinking, this is gonna hurt! I rubbed the foundation all over my face, trying not to wince while my fingers applied the layers of make-up on my bruise. 

        When I finished, I dragged my butt downstairs to eat breakfast. I had helped myself to orange juice and waffles. I now sit in a red bean bag chair the living room, watching the news. I love coming to Grandma's house because one whole wall is her T.V.

        "Last night there were three break-ins on Rosemary Street," the reporter announces. She is standing outside a house with police caution tape surrounding it. Flashing police lights slice through the foggy morning.   

        Rosemary Street. That's where I live! Or lived. I force my brain to shut up so I can listen to the reporter. 

        "When the police arrived at the first house, they saw the front door was broken down. Signs of struggle were found. It appears nothing was stolen except for the family of sixteen that lived in that house. There are no signs of their whereabouts. The only thing that was left was some blood. Tests are being run to see if the blood is from one of the family of sixteen, or if it could be the kidnapper's."

        Family of sixteen. I knew them! They were the Refts.

        The reporter continues, saying, "The two other houses were found to be in similar condition. The police are hoping--"

        I stop paying attention immediately as I see something dart across the yard behind the reporter. I grab the remote off the coffee table and rewind while sipping orange juice. When I see the figure, I pause and stare at it for a moment. Halfway through swallowing my juice, I realize who it is and start choking. I set down my cup and cough while beating my chest frantically with my fists. I realize this is not helping, so I gulp down more orange juice until I stop hacking.

        "Not. Good. Really. Really. Bad!" I say aloud. My dad just stole sixteen people from one freaking house! Just one house! Not including the other two he broke into last night.

        I tune back in to the reporter, waiting to see if she has anymore news about the break-ins. She doesn't. She starts talking about another crime. I am about to turn the T.V. off when I hear, "Deputy Derek of the Science Government Division was found missing last night after being sent to scientist Dr. Matthew Rado's lab last night. Police are being sent to investigate the disappearance of the deputy. That is your morning news for Moddo City, and I'm Candie Peters." 

        My jaw drops. I sit there for a moment, trying to make sense of it all in the midst of my jumbled emotions. 

        I bolt from the room and run around the house, trying to find my mom. I eventually find her on the porch, sitting in the wooden swing. Her hands clutch a mug, still full with coffee. Her green eyes gaze blankly out at the front lawn. Her thin blond hair is unbrushed. She appears not to feel the chill in the summer day.

        "Mom? You might want to come see this," I tell her. She tears her eyes away from the yard, her eyebrows scrunched in question. 

        I lead her through Grandma's house and into the living room. I replay the news footage for her, and pause the video at the part where dad is seen.

        Mom covers her mouth with her hand. Tears fill her eyes. They threaten to spill over onto her cheeks. 

        I am not done, though. I unpause the T.V. and let the rest of the footage play. 

        When it is finished, there is no emotion on Mom's face. She slowly walks to a couch and burries her face in her hands, muttering, "Matthew, Matthew, Matthew." She curls up into the fetal position, letting those tears flow freely. Her shoulders shake as he sobs into her knees.

        I stand there awkwardly, until, not knowing what else to do, I go back to the part of the news where it shows Dad. I examine it, taking in the details. I tune out Mom's crying and go into analyzing mode. 

        Several minutes later, a tap on my shoulder makes me jump and spin around. 

        Grandma looks at me, genuinely confused. I hadn't even realized she came in. 

        "Holli, you've been staring at the T.V. screen for over twenty minutes."

        Over twenty minutes? No, it was only a couple minutes . . . wasn't it?

        "Why is your Mom crying? What happened?"   

        I cannot hide the evidence on the wall (or giant T.V. screen, whatever you want to call it). I cannot hide the fact that my father has blood smeared on his hands, or that he is in the yard of a crime scene. No. I will have to tell Grandma the truth.