The Life of Wyatt Owens

Sunrise

                               PROLOUGE

I woke up this morning to the sound
of the hummingbirds outside my bedroom window, chirping away. It was only six am, I didn't have to be up for another hour, considering I had class at eight.

Sleep deprived and angry, I put my head under the pillow and plugged my ears desperately hoping to fall back asleep. Seconds later, the sunshine beamed through the silk blue curtains, swaying back and forth. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the window sill, observing that it was cracked open. No wonder why the birds were louder this morning than usual. I yawned as I unwillingly got out of bed and slammed the window and curtains shut, then crawled back into bed.

I hadn't slept the best last night. Grant, my older brother, kept me up late so I can do help him with his homework. It's sort of the laughing stock in the house that he's two grades ahead of me, yet still asks me for help sometimes. Though I don't mind it usually when he asks, because it's one way we get to bond, and I like the feeling of someone counting on me. I can't remember the last time I've woken up at six am before. I'm not a morning person and I'm convinced I won't ever be.

In the last foster home I had lived in, I habituated a routine consisting of staying up until four or five am making music, binge watching home improvement, and raiding the kitchen cabinets for crackers or my favorite, barbecue chips. Mr. Nickleson usually left for work at five am though, so some mornings we'd meet in the kitchen as he's brewing coffee for his twelve hour shift, and I'd be in the middle of making a turkey sandwich in between the tv commercials. He had been managing a shoe warehouse for roughly forty years. He'd greet me with a good morning every time, but deep down I knew he despised me and my entire generation.

I pulled the blankets over to me to get comfortable again, but I kept tossing and turning. Stupid birds. Can't your conversation wait until at least seven? I groggily sat up out of bed and rubbed my tired, red, stinging eyes. I figured the world must want me awake at this time. I slipped on a pair of socks and quietly stagger downstairs to the kitchen. The whole house was dark, so I figured I was the only one awake.

It's September first. Autumn is here and it's making it known. The atmosphere is getting colder. Careful not to wake anyone, I slowly opened up the refrigerator and scanned my eyes around the shelves for orange juice. Our foster mom and dad asked us every Monday before their weekly grocery trip, if the six of us want anything in particular. I always decline their offer, however, last week I took up that offer and wrote down three things I wanted. Orange juice, little debbie's hostess cakes, and barbecue chips.

Orange juice.. orange juice.. come on, where is it? I couldn't tell if the lack of sleep was having my eyes deceive me, or if the orange juice was actually gone, but I was so looking forward to a fresh glass with ice.

I thought I made it crystal clear last week when I wrote on the dry erase board, GET YOUR OWN FOOD LOSERS. My foster mom was disappointed in me, because she told me it wasn't "polite", and that she would've just bought more if I had asked her. I guess it's the principal of the fact I haven't had my own of anything since I've been living here here with the Chandler's. I don't know if my brother Grant feels the same way as I do, but I'm not used to a big foster family. I'm going to have to get used to it though, because it looks like we'll be staying here for at least another six months.

I sucked in my cheeks and shut the refrigerator door, disappointed. I erased the message I had written on the board a week ago and replaced it with, to do: get your own juice. I rubbed my face and stepped outside onto the back patio and let the sun hit my face for a moment.

I realized this morning the one good thing about waking up before anyone else; the peace and quiet. I haven't heard this just much silence since I've moved here. My therapist advised me to dedicate a few minutes of each morning to meditate or pray to set the tone for the day. I don't know how to do either, but I'm trying to learn it. I may only be fifteen but I'm so desperate for peace of mind.

It's been six months since I've moved in here. I've slowly grew to like our little lake house. It's just taken a while to get used to. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate Mr. and Mrs. Chandler for taking Grant and I in, it's just different here compared to all the other foster homes we've shared. At least I can say I'm lucky to have Grant with me through out all of this.

All of the sudden, I heard the sliding glass door open gently behind me, leaving our dog, Dasher, gallop to his usual pee spot. "Early bird gets the worm!" My foster mom, Melody, grinned. I turned my head a little to acknowledge her and I gave her a half smile. I wasn't ready to give up my solitude just yet, but I felt I owed her a response. "." Still in her fuzzy slippers and plaid pajamas, she sat on the porch next to me. "I also like to wake up before everyone else, to come out here and look at the trees every morning." I looked over at the big, oak trees breezing through the wind in our backyard. Really? You wake up at six am to stare a damn tree? Mrs. Chandler took a closer glimpse at the oak tree and sighed, "this oak tree we're looking at right now, is the same tree I used to climb as a little girl. This used to be my mother's house, you know." Alright, I regret what I originally thought. Must be nice to say you've grown up in the same house your entire life. I could never relate to that. "My brother and I used to try so hard to climb this tree to the very top. We never made it that high up, though."

She got up from the porch and clapped for Dasher to get back in the house. "I'm making eggs and toast this morning, want to help me?" I shrugged, slowly getting up from the porch as well. "Sure, I'll be inside in a few. I'm not exactly having the best morning." She crossed her arms as a puzzled expression rested upon her face. Before she could ask what was wrong, I answered for her. "Someone stole my orange juice. I know it's just juice, and it's not the end of the world, but... I was looking forward to it."

We both watched Dasher prance over to us with chewed up, soggy, squeaky ball hanging out of his mouth. "I see," she began. "That's certainly not okay." I nodded in agreement. "What do you think I should do?" "Easy," she crossed her arms. "Find the culprit and address your concern... politely though, Wyatt." Politely? Just like how they politely stole my juice? "And as frustrating as this is," she added, "remember this is just a rough patch in the road. You'll learn to love your siblings one day, I promise," she tried to assure me as we walked back inside the house. She began to brew the two of us a pot coffee. Maybe she felt bad about the orange juice. "Siblings? More like strangers," I snarled.
I knew instantly after I shouldn't of said that out loud. I should've kept that to myself. I just had buried feelings that were coming to the surface. I never grew closer to any of my "siblings" because I'm a foster kid. By the time I grow close to someone, I'm ripped out of that home and put into a different one. "And why should I love them?" I asked her, genuinely. She grabbed two coffee mugs from the kitchen cabinet. "Grab the Sugar-Free French Vanilla creamer out of the refrigerator, will you?" She asked me as she grabbed a couple of stevia packets from the sugar jar. I handed her the creamer still waiting for a response. She put her hand on her hip and sucked in her cheeks, "I know you aren't too fond of Alex, but you've got to realize you're a lot more alike than you think."

I sat down at the Island at closed my eyes. In what ways are we alike exactly? All six of us were abandoned as kids? What else did we have in common besides the mutual void in our hearts?