Paperweight

1: "Screw you, Parker King."

Paperweight

"I've been this way with so many before, but this feels like the first time."

Chapter 1

        It was warm in Alaswood, South Carolina. Actually, no. It was hot. Blazing hot. So hot, that my bare legs stuck to the stool that I sat on. So hot, that the air outside was seen in hazy waves. It didn't help that I was up in the attic; the top of the house, and the only space without air conditioning.

        I'd probably die if I spent another twenty minutes up there, but I had to finish this. I just had to. If I didn't finish it now, while the passion was still existent, it would never be completed. I loved painting, but my focus and motivation for new ideas was usually fleeting.

        This particular piece of artwork was of the attic. I had already completed it's angled, wooden walls with a deep brown paint and it's big, clear window on the left of the space. I had moved into the attic at the beginning of the summer, since I was now too old to be sharing with my little sister, Jamie. I was fifteen; I needed my privacy. Plus, the attic had the greatest view. It looked over all of Alaswood, the trees, the houses, the big fields, and sometimes-just sometimes-, I liked to tell people that if you stood on your tiptoes and squinted your eyes, you could see the ocean, too. People usually believed me; I was a great liar.

        I shifted myself on my stool, my movements slow and lazy. The heat was suffocating. The only downside of living up in the attic was it's lack of cool air, and when winter came around, it's lack of heat. Papa always assured me that he would install a ceiling fan or a heater in my new bedroom, but I knew that he'd never get around to it. My father was a man of many empty promises.

        I rolled my eyes at that thought and then continued painting, my strokes slowly becoming more and more indolent. I was soon disrupted from my work when I heard footsteps on the attic ladder.

        I rose from my seat and opened the attic door to reveal my thirteen year old sister, Jamie, climbing up the steps. She stepped up into my bedroom, making me aware of her attire. She was wearing her ballet clothes, her long, brown locks thrown into a small bun. Even with her hair up and her costume, she was still the spitting image of our mother. Their brown hair and eyes were almost identical, not to mention Jamie had also inherited her beautiful tan skin and her small nose. I, unlike Jamie and my other two sisters, had been given the looks of our father. I had instead been gifted dirty blonde hair and murky green eyes. I had also been cursed with his freckles, but had missed out on his staggering height, which my three other sisters had. I was the black sheep of the bunch, maybe even considered the ugly duckling. 

        "What's up?" I asked her, turning to resume my painting. I could feel her follow me to the canvas. 

        "We have a problem," she told me. I raised one eyebrow, but continued to paint.

        I questioned, "What kind of problem?"

        "I have ballet in twenty minutes, and no one is home to take me," she explained. I turned to face her.

        "What do you mean no one is home?" I asked her. She rolled her eyes at me, clearly frustrated with my consistent questions.