Run Red Rover

For the first time in what felt like eons, when I opened my eyes, there was a light feeling in my chest. Even the air had a languid taste to it; the dust particles dancing in the thin strips of sunlight which cut through my window, the faint sound of windchimes in the front garden. Closing my eyes, I tried to recall whatever details I could for this rare, nice dream, instead of the usual stressing nightmare. Looking to my right, Kayla was still asleep, and with her, she had stolen most of the blankets. Smiling to myself, I quietly got up and went to my bag, trying to unzip it as silently as possible.

After a few times of checking if she was still asleep, I quickly got dressed and set to logging the dream in my notebook. Gigantic, glowing blue; something soft in my arms, and holding someone's hand. And I think I heard someone saying my name...

The click of me closing the pen felt loud in such a still room, and at its echo Kayla let out a slow breath before rolling over. Releasing a tense sigh, I buried my notebook back into my bag before going downstairs. I ran my hand along the wooden hand rail and counted the familiar 15 steps, the faint smell of coffee coming from the dining room. Following my nose, I was met with Mrs. Stevenson sitting at the table reading a newspaper, her reading glasses caught by the sun showing ignored fingerprints. Maybe it was an old person thing to not clean your glasses?

"Morning dove, you're up early!"

"Yea..." My tongue felt dry and cotton-wrapped as I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee before adding an ungodly amount of sugar to it. Though I didn't necessarily want to spend time alone with her, I sat at the dining room table nonchalantly and took my first sip.

The warmth of the coffee mug felt good against my palms, and it numbed the ache in my right hand which was still bandaged from last night. As if noticing it at the same time as me, Mrs. Stevenson lowered her paper.

"What happened to your hand?"

Looking at the bandages, I took another sip of my coffee as the feelings from last night resurfaced, though now much more manageable. I stared at them for another moment before a lie effortlessly rolled off my tongue.

"I knocked the tea off my nightstand last night on accident, and cut myself when I was picking up the pieces."

The look in her eye told me she didn't believe me, but I pretended not to notice as I got up to top off my mug again. The amount of bandages was probably a bit much to just be from picking up broken glass, but I acted as if I didn't care. In moments like this, she was painfully obvious to read- her side glance, her eyes shielded by the newspaper except for when she turned pages.

If this was back during high school, she would chastise me about my anger issues and how I shouldn't take it out on random objects, or she would tell me to take a deep breath and tell her exactly what I was feeling. Now, just thinking of it made me feel extremely bitter. During the day you want to act like you care, but in the end you still hide things from me...

Then again, I do the same thing. The thought sat on my tongue for awhile as I read the back of her newspaper, the headlines as boring for a small town in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere as you would expect. "High school senior makes county finals" and "Cement factory moves to different state" stood out like pale, boring weeds; and the rest was much the same. Closing my eyes, I thought back to my dream and tried to hold the light, warm feeling in my chest for as long as I could. Recalling the sensations and faint emotions was oddly gratifying; as if I was back where I belonged.

'Belonging'- along with the light feeling came the appalled ache of being here instead of there. My fingers twirled my hair absent-mindedly, and I suddenly had the notion to let it grow out and to stop coloring it. Mrs. Stevenson and her daughter had wheat-like hair; that kind of soft, phantom like color that makes you think of autumn crops. When I was younger, I used to bleach my hair to try to match theirs- I wanted to look like them because I wanted to feel like I was a part of the family. It was an ironic choice, considering how deep down, I still refused to call Eliza my sister or acknowledge Mrs. Stevenson as my mom. Yes, I'm a lot like her: on the surface, I call her Ma and try to blend into the family, but deep down I don't want them to take up that vacant space in my heart. No; not vacant, just forgotten. Just... burning and festering sickly, with that devilish pang of anger that I cling to toxically.

"Hey Ma..." I was only rubbing in my two-faced ambitions when I said that, and I pallidly let myself be entertained by it. "Why did you and Pa decide to foster me?"

It was a question I asked only once before when I was twelve. Though I kept my words gentle and semi-upbeat, I felt my cheeks heat up coyly. I didn't entirely know why I felt like asking, not when I remember verbatim what she said back then... it was something like-

"Well," She lowered her paper before closing it neatly and setting it down on the table. " I always wanted to have lots of children, but after Eliza was born, I was told I couldn't have kids anymore. Luckily, by the grace of God we were able to meet you and I immediately felt my mother-hen instincts kick back in." A small chuckle served to prove she was answering authentically, as if just thinking about it made her feel blessed.

"Gosh, you were so little back then, and quite the rascal. I remember when you..."

I zoned out as she set to telling some distracting story that drew us away from what I really wanted to talk about, and the answer she would never really tell me. Though before, when I was twelve I had sensed it vaguely, now, having grown older, I could plainly spot the organized script. There's only one 'right' answer to a question like that, right? And she was more than prepared to give it, all while lacing her fingers together seriously as her words droned on hollowly. Pretty words, soft chuckles; but looking at the way she was sitting, and how her eyes were trained on her hands in-focus, rather than far-off; it all felt like an interview for a job. Unoriginal, only telling me what you think I want to hear, and at the end of it all-

"Do you remember that?"

This time, I looked at my hands and smiled coolly as well, relaxed.

"Yea. I do."

The voice from before was proudly silent now, and with it I resigned myself to soundless musings as Mrs. Stevenson returned to her coffee and paper, satisfied.

The bottom of my coffee mug felt like a premonition somehow, and I felt my grip tighten around the glass. If I squeezed a little tighter, it would shatter just like last night, and my other hand would be cut to match my right. As if on que, I got up from my seat at hearing footsteps start down the stairs before plating a slice of apple pie and heating it in the microwave.

"Morning," Was her greeting, but her voice sounded a little off; a little hitched. I shook my head to wake myself up more as the microwave beeped, before returning to the table and setting it down in front of her.

"Good Morning." Kayla's eyes lit up at the apple pie before she shoveled a huge bite into her mouth, a 'Mmm' her response. I couldn't stop the chuckle that slipped from my lips before I caught Mrs. Stevenson staring at me with that look, causing the sound to die in the back of my throat. In an instant, I felt a shiver run up my spine as if nothing had changed; as if I hadn't left for college or cut myself off from them. My hand instinctually grabbed my arm meekly, my eyes flinching to the floor as something popped in my chest. This sense of deja vu....