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Eight

Mom pulled up to our front street, the car entirely quiet and awkward, no one had spoken the whole ride home. I could tell something was on Mom's mind, she kept looking back at me in her rear view mirror, but didn't say a word. Her eyes spoke for themselves, and I knew there would be something spoken about once we got into the house. But I didn't want any part of it. I didn't want to speak to her, I didn't want to tell her what happened.

  Grabbing my bags beside me, I opened the door in an instant, before the car even stopped.

  "Alex!" I heard her yell, parking the car in a hurry, as she slammed the door, and Cody got out in a hurry as well. Following me along like puppy dogs, I tried to storm into the house as quickly as possible, without getting swarmed by the few reports still camped out on our lawn. Although like usual, luck wasn't on my side.

  "Alex!"

  "Alex, can you comment on your case? How do you think the police are handling it?"

  "Do they have any leads as to where your abductor is?"

  "Do you know where Hank Jacobs could have gone?"

  "Alex! How does it feel to be home?"

  "What have the last five years been like for you? What type of abuse did you endured in captivity?"

  I stopped in my tracks at the last comment, the last reporter. I didn't think I would, I didn't want to, I just wanted to head inside, to not look back, to make a beeline for the house and ignore them. But this comment stunned me, I couldn't not do anything, I couldn't ignore it. My feet had a mind of their own as they stopped, and I stood there in my spot for a few moments, facing the entrance of the house, only feet away. And the reporters went dead quiet at my action.

  I turned myself around slowly, peering behind me, in search of the male's voice who asked me the last question.

  Who the hell asks that?

  I was stunned, in disbelief. And it seemed Cody and Mom were as well, standing behind me, looking over at the bald reporter with the note pad in his hands, waiting to write down my answer. He didn't seem fazed by his question at all, as if he only asked me how the weather was today.

  Do they really not care about me or my feelings at all? All they want is a damn story, and they don't care how they get it?

  Does this bald guy really think I'm just going to answer him like that? Do any of them think that? How delusional are they?

  Screw you. Screw all of you. Just freakin leave me alone. I wanted to say that, but I held back, biting my cheek.

  How do they think of me? Do they think this has all been a picnic for me? Like I enjoy this attention? Like I'm thrilled about what happened to me, because of all this attention? How do they think I feel? Do they honestly think these questions are helping me? Trying to poke into my life, my families lives? Their just vultures, picking and dissecting our lives, trying to scavenge enough for a good story that will make them some money. Screw off. Can't they just leave me the hell alone? All of them? Everyone?

  "Just ignore them. Come on, lets go," Mom said after a moment, pushing me along back in the house. But I swung out of her grip, stalking off as I walked fast and ahead of them.

  Dad was in the living room to the left as I pushed the door open, wanting to close the door behind me, but Mom and Cody were too close behind. I saw his head whip towards me at the gesture, beginning to stand from the couch, while the TV hummed and mumbled in the background. But almost right after the moment our eyes met, he reverted his back down, far away from me.