April 29. 2013
Day 29: Write a scene involving a strong scent.
I opened my eyes and felt a stiffness in my neck. Straightening up, I realized I had fallen asleep on the dining table. I put a hand to my mouth to check for any signs of drooling or whatever. My head hurt and I frowned at the scent wafting through the room.
It smelled like something was burning!
The pie!
I scrambled to get to the oven where black smoke rose up in thick columns, knocking the chair on the black and white-tiled floor. A string of curse words flashed themselves through my head but I was in too much of a panic to say them out loud. I pulled the oven door open and took the pan with my bare hands, gritting my teeth to brace myself for the scalding metal. I immediately dropped the pie on the floor face-up with a clatter and blew on my angry, red, charred hands.
I looked at the blackened pie and almost laughed hysterically. This is absolutely crazy! What is wrong with me? I think I have a penchant for messing up everything! What is the worth of good intentions when I cannot get anything right after all?
I put my blistered hands under the cool running water of the kitchen sink. They didn't do much to ease the pain, but it provided some sort of relief. Suddenly, droplets fell upon the counter in little puddles and I realized I had been crying.
The smell of charred pie lingered long in the air even as the smoke started to fade away. I did not know how long I sat on the floor, leaning on the sink, staring at the ruined pie.
Just like everything in my life.
Ruined.
I didn't hear Grandma come in. I only noticed her when she surprised me as she sat on the floor beside me and put her arms around me. She never showed me this side of her. Grandma wanted me to be strong. She thought I was strong. It was always Amber she had seemed to favor. Automatically, I leaned into her as my stears came in streams down my cheeks now.
"Your hands," she said gently, "Here."
Grandma unscrewed the cap of an ointment tube and sqeezed some of the clear gel onto her palm.She started slathering salve on my burned hands and for the first time ever, I saw a caring side to my Grandma, a side that isn't severe, isn't cold, isn't detached.
I remembered Zach.
And how he was the only one who treated me with such care, who showed me how I mattered to him. He would spend time with me, even clearing his schedule for me. He would listen to what I have to say. He brings out the best in me, I guess. He let me see the real him, the boy behind the bad-ass exterior, the boy who wore his heart on a sleeve.
Zach did love me.
He loved me and I was too blind to see it.
And now, I lost him.
