Mute {Luke Hemmings AU}

1

"You'll be fine." My dad reassures me when we stop at a stoplight. "Sometimes, moving isn't that hard. When I moved from my country, I didn't whine as much as you are. I just stayed strong, made friends, and lived a happy life. It's as easy as that." I frown and look out my window to see a huge block of wood planted firmly on the concrete. Welcome to Astoria, Oregon! the sign reads. A thick layer of fog washes over us and my dad leans forward, pressing his body against the steering wheel and squinting to see through it. He mumbles something fowl under his breath and steps on the gas pedal as soon as the street light flashes green. I push my fingers against the window and sigh.

Outside, the sun tries it's best to shine through the fog, but is unsuccessful, leaving the small town of Astoria with dark, murky skies overhead. I guess I'm okay with that. I'm one of those people who prefer rain over sun. And milk chocolate over dark chocolate. And the color black rather than the color white. But as we near our new house, it finally dawns on me that moving across the country in the middle of junior year might not be the smartest decision. I should probably change my name to Loser beforehand. Or maybe Retard would be easier for people to say. It's easier to remember than my real name, anyways. I'll probably be spending my last couple of years in high school friendless, hiding in the bathrooms during lunch, staying in the library before the bell, and avoiding people in the hallways.

"Shoot. I just missed the turn." My dad makes a most-likely-illegal u-turn and makes another right turn into our street. I wonder if our neighbors are nice. Half of the houses that I've already seen look to be as though they are haunted and vacant. Before we arrive, we circle around a deserted park a few times before we realise we've already driven past our house nearly a thousand times. My dad stops the car in the driveway and unlocks the doors of our minivan. I get out of the car and look behind me to see that the lonely park was only across the street from our house. I look at my dad and then look at all the boxes we will have to unload with a sigh. He opens the trunk, and the boxes nearly fly out at him like an avalanche. I grab one tiny box, put it on our porch step and walk towards the park on the other side of the street. He just looks at me, and I cross the street without looking both ways for cars.

"Thanks for helping unload the boxes." He says sarcastically. I pull my hood over my head and block out his voice as he says another sarcastic remark.

My dad can't live a single day without saying something sarcastic. And to be honest, I am getting tired of it. Some people would say that his sense of humor is amazing, but I just think that his sarcasm is a type of encouragement that no one needs in their life.

My feet suddenly hit the soggy grass of the Lonely Park, and I bend down to feel the long blades run through my fingers. I'm surprised the fields of the Lonely Park are empty because the trees are great for climbing and the grass is fantastic to play frisbee or tag on. The huge rocks would also be great hiding places for hide and seek, if there were children around. Over time, I navigate my way through the tall pine trees and towering boulders that sit in the grass. There is a layer of raindrops on the tree branches that occasionally fall on my head, and dew on top of the small mushrooms that sprout from the roots of the trees. Yellow flowers pop out of the ground every few feet and some of the boulders are covered with bright green moss. The fog is still thick, but somehow the air is still fresh. I trudge around in the mud some more, not caring if my sneakers got dirty, and finally come upon a playground. The yellow paint of the slide is peeling, and the wooden structure of the play set looks like it's been eaten away by termites. Some of the nails and bolts are coming loose, and splinters shoot out at every angle and every direction.

The swings look okay though.

I then find myself sitting on the red painted swings and pumping my legs back and forth. The sleeves of my sweater drape over my fingertips as I grab the cold chains of the swing. I'm not really getting anywhere accept for jerking back and forth aimlessly - I haven't been on a swing set for years, and my mind can't seem to remember the correct way to have fun.

A few years ago, when my mother was still alive, my dad took me to the hospital to visit her. It was close to the end, so she wrote down a list of things that we enjoyed doing together. She told me that they'll make me smile and think of her. Swinging was one of them, but clearly she was wrong. "Being selectively mute is a phase too. You'll get over it some day." She said with a warm smile. I wondered if having cancer was just a phase too.

It wasn't.

My mom would like this place a lot. She was always an outdoor person, and by the way the branches of the trees swayed in the wind and the way the yellow dandelions burst with color, I could tell that this is a place that she would enjoy more than anyone.

Now I don't know how I feel. Part of me wants to appreciate that I live in Oregon instead of living in some other more crappy town, and the other part of me wants me to run back home, which is impossible since our old home is all the way in New York. Or 3,800 miles away. Running away is out of the question. Living is now my only option.

I KNOW it's a terribly short chapter and I realise that the ending is terrible and the rest of the chapter is probably boring, but I promise you it will get better and it will get better soon.

Thank you guys so so much for 25 reads. Please VOTE, comment, leave CONSTRUCTIVE criticism and maybe give me a follow. I would absolutely love if my story got a lot more reads, but with the amount of reads I have right now, I'm feeling just fine.

tank you tank you