He Came Through the Window

Part 11

[Once again, this character banner was made by EKShortstories. Check her out, her writing is absolutely flawless.]

(Holland's Perspective)

I awoke drenched in my own sweat, hastily kicking the mass of blankets to the floor and groaning. The furnace was kicked up higher than I had expected, and when I glanced over at Ayden, the tips of her hair were wet. She lay still under my arm that draped over her, and she breathed steadily. I felt myself smile a bit. She looked beautiful, expression still and calm, one free of nightmares. Touching my thumb to her cheek, the heat radiated to my body, and the moisture rubbed off on my nail. My body tensed when she rolled over on her left side, and I caught a portion of her blue bra strap peeking out from my old t-shirt she wore. Carefully taking the shirt collar in my fingertips, I pulled it back over her shoulder and slowly got out of bed. Despite my attempts to be descreet, my feet ended up tangling themselves in the sheets, sending me hurling toward the wooden floor.

I met the floor with a thud, cursing under my breath and biting down on my lower lip as I stumbled to my knees. Despite the heat radiating from the furnace, the floor was chilly against my bare knees, and I couldn't help but feel a bit awkward in only my underwear. As I tossed the blankets away, I caught sight of a gray photo album peeking out from under my bed. I took it my hands, sitting cross-legged on the floor as I opened it up.

A low chuckle escaped my lips at the first photo of me, around two or three years old, stuffing a piece or chocolate cake in my mouth. My blue eyes were catching the camera flash, making them appear almost brown, and it appeared as I was smiling in the middle of my big bite. In the lower righthand corner, scrawled in blue cursive, read "Holland's third birthday; September 29, 1996."

I flipped through a few pages before stopping at a photo of young me again, holding a tiny baby in my arms and grinning at the camera with large gaps in my smile. The baby was swaddled in a pink blanket, and a white, knit cap covered her little, bald head. "India's birthday; October 21, 2001" was written in the lower righthand corner. It was my mother's handwriting, but my father's photograph. He was never without a camera when I was growing up. He snapped the photos and my mother organized them.

It was a small album, and it was the final photograph on the final page that made my heart drop. Our outfits were coordinating white to contrast with the black background, and we were perched on the bottom steps of a white, spiral staircase. My father was on the fourth step, grinning casually and resting folded hands on his knees. His black hair was cut short, matching stubble barely visible against his pallid cheeks. Gray-blue eyes gleamed in the flash, mine doing the same as I was sitting two steps below him, an awkward and gangly twelve-year-old. My mother and India wore matching, white dresses, both wearing their brown hair long and straight.

I was twelve, India was four, and at that time we had no idea our father would be out the door the following month, setting out for California without us. I hadn't seen him since I caught him zipping his suitcase closed early one November morning. His hands were trembling when I called down the hallway to him, begging him to stay. He was halfway out the door before turning around and offering a weak wave.

"I love you," He said to me. "You'll understand when you're older. Take care of your mother and sister."

Even at nineteen years old, I still was unable to understand it. He left without warning, without signs, without a justifiable reason. The blood in my veins boiled at the thought, and I tossed the album across the room, letting it crash into my bookshelf and send my lyric books tumbling to the ground.

"Holland?"

I jumped at the soft, female voice that jolted me from my trance. Scrambling to my feet, I saw Ayden sit up in bed and smile at me. She ran her fingers through her lightly damp hair. "Are you okay?" She asked groggily.