The Girl- Olivia Rodrigo

1

If you had asked me one month ago where I'd be and what I'd be doing, I'd tell you I would be hanging out at the beach with friends... applying for colleges... dancing around the kitchen with my mother and stepfather. Anything but what I'm doing now.

Trudging through mud, struggling to read a map as the rainfall continues to grow more intense. My father was supposed to meet me at the train station, you see, but in true Greene fashion, he forgot.... and he left his "Little Elizabeth" to her own devices. At first I thought, "No big deal! I can uber!" but upon walking out of the station, I came to realize that wouldn't be an option. His house just had to be located in one of the most secluded areas of Washington State, and the rainiest; Forks has got nothing on this place.

I was pissed, I was drenched, I was hungry, I was tired, I was angry that my mother & stepfather sent me away, and I was close. I hadn't visited my father since I was seven; my parents divorced when I was 5, and my father agreed that I would be better off living with my mom somewhere sunnier and more populated, like California.  Even though eleven years had passed, I recognized the big black gothic style gates immediately. 

The house- or should I say, the estate, sat atop a hill, surrounded by thick trees and overgrown grass. My father liked to refer to it as "The Greene House" (a play on our last name) but my mother always thought it was a silly name considering the victorian style house was made of deep red bricks and slate. "Just call it a house and be done with it Harry," I remember her scoffing during dinner one night. "Life doesn't need to be as whimsical or dramatic as your books." 

Dad was a writer, and his books sold well enough to afford him a very affluent lifestyle- especially when he was still married to my mother. They married after only seven months of dating, and within those months he bought my mother everything she touched, hung onto every word she spoke, bought her the house she grew up envying, and dedicated a book to her. Even after they married, he continued to indulge her, with yours truly. Dad didn't want kids, but mom wanted a little girl, so a little girl she got 9 months later. 

I don't remember why they broke up. All I can seem to remember is my mother waking me in the middle of the night, hurriedly packing up most of my clothes, and shoving me onto a train with her. 

I'm glad she did. This just goes to show how little he cares.

Instead of knocking, I swiftly pull open the big mahogany doors and drop my suitcase to the floor with a loud thud. 

"Dad?" I call out. The only response I get is the sound of the rain falling even heavier than it had before outside. 

The house looks the same. Same ugly, faded floral wallpaper and 19th century cream furniture surrounding an unlit fireplace. Photos of me at various stages of my life litter the occasional shelf or desk, as well as a few of my mom. I guess she still sent him my school photos every year.