Friday, April 11, 2014

Friday April 11, 2014. 1:07 pm

Mother and father come to visit.
It's early morning and raining.
Don't let them know.
We talk for a while; exchange embraces.
Outside there is a storm brewing.
Wind starts to pick up forming small tornadoes almost.
My mother looks outside. She starts to cry.
She says: "I just don't want bad things to happen to you."

The storm is getting louder.

My father is sitting by the window in a rocking chair. Since when did I own a rocking chair?
There are now three large and open windows in my room. He just stares out the first one on the left, rocking back and forth. He is silent for once, but as always, melancholy. Poor man. I don't have the heart to lie to my mother. My poor, poor mother who must know. She always knows. Always comes to the rescue. It's my turn now.
I hug her. Soother her. Hold her. The words that come from my mouth next seem unnatural, even to me. I say:

"Oh mother. I am destined for great things. Bad things are meant to happen to people who are destined for greater things."

My father is still staring out the window. The storm forms whirlwinds and picks up leaves and rocks. Becomes bigger. They both look so sad. In retrospect, I realize now they might have known something. That they were hiding something from me. I get up, and look at my pensive father. I say:

"Daddy, get away from the window."

Daddy. It almost feels natural now.

I don't want him cold and sad anymore. He seems nearly catatonic, but then he gets up. How did they get into the house? Michael isn't even home. I close all three windows. Spacious and white and beautiful with soft thin white curtains. My room looks bigger.  I think mami is still crying. Daddy goes to look at my bookcase. He begins to inspect it. No doubt to judge my choices of reading. I ask them how they got here and they told me that they just broke in the front door. It doesn't seem to surprise me for some reason.
 Other windows in the house are open. I don't know how I know this, I just feel it. Or I hear the wind moaning from my living room. I have to close them. The storm keeps getting worse. I should be scared, but I'm not. I make my way to the living room. It's generous, with different styles of furniture in it accrued over the years. Sentiment. The walls are covered in paintings. It has antiques everywhere and sharp edges. Casings, and stiff couches. I have said it before. It feels like a museum, not a home. As I get to the living room, it too feels bigger than normal. Not only is a window open, there is a man in a big navy blue jacket holding a duffle bag trying to break in. Yellow shirt underneath. Red beanie. It all seems so real.

"What the fuck-Who the fuck are you!?" I yell.

He drops his bag and nonchalantly starts to walk away. I can almost feel the water and wind coming through the window onto my skin.

"Hey motherfucker, get back here." I yell, louder this time. I don't know where this bravery is coming from. It brings a rush of energy I haven't felt before. It's as if I'm looking for a fight? No, can't be.
The windows get bigger somehow. How bizarre. The man pulls out a gun from his coat. The big puffy navy blue one. He seems so small under it. You hear the click, and within the blink of an eye, he aims and shoots through the screening into my leg. He has no expression on his face. No fear. The shot rings loud. I am surprised. And angry. I still want to fight. There is no pain. This is not real. Reality starts to pull at the corners of this more than vague tapestry. I have to stay. What if he tries to hurt mom and dad?

Good Morning.


Good Afternoon.

Don't let them know.

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