Ghosts Of The Attic

2. Home Sweet Home

2

     My mother was nothing more than a shadow of her former self. Her weight had dropped considerably to the point where I could pinch my thumb and index finger around her wrist.  The deep bags under her eyes and her sunken cheeks made her look like a skeleton. And when she wrapped me into a warm embrace, I flinched, feeling the bones from under her pale skin. Her red hair had faded to a dingy brown, but her blue eyes had hope gleaming inside of them.

     “Mother,” I greeted, trying to smile.

     “Lucas,” she breathed, burying her face into my shoulder. “Oh God…I’m sorry. I’m…so sorry. I’ve missed you so much.”

     She took a deep breath before letting go, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. My father coughed, breaking the silence. His blonde hair held streaks of silver–which weren’t there six months ago–while his grey eyes stared at me, taking in my appearance.

     “Son,” he managed to smile, “how…how are you?”

     “Fine,” I answered, averting his gaze. “Perfectly fine…how about you, father?”

     “Good, good,” he replied before turning to Dr. Crowell. “Is he good to go?”

     “Lucas is perfectly healthy, mentally and physically,” Dr. Crowell reported, “but he’s having slight difficulty sleeping, so I prescribed him some pills. The nurse should hand them to you before you leave.”

     “Anything else?”

     “Lucas should clean out his room before you leave as well,” Dr. Crowell continued. “Did you bring him a change of clothes?”

     My mother nodded eagerly before shoving a duffle bag in my hands. Moments later, the feel of denim against my skin felt different than the normal, cotton pants I usually wore. I slipped into a button up and jacket before stuffing my journal into the bag. Before I walked out of the room, I examined it once more, staring at the spot where I tallied how many days I had stayed here. 181, I noted, 181 days of misery.

     The ride back to Crow’s Point, my hometown, seemed to take forever. I rested my forehead on the window, watching the snow fall. My palms were sweating and I kept on rubbing them on the front of my jeans. What would happen when I got back? Would people protest in front of our house? The list of what could happen seemed to stretch on and on as I thought about it more. An hour later, we pulled up onto a familiar street.

     My eyes fell upon our neighbors, who were hovering in front of their houses as we drove by them. Their grim expressions caused me to gulp down the lump in my throat, so I turned my attention back to my father. He silently clicked the remote–the wrought, iron gates now opening–before driving up the hill to our house. I turned my head around, watching as the gates closed behind us, isolating us from the rest of the town.

     “Well…that was interesting,” my mother commented.

     “Doreen,” my father sighed, drawling on her name, “that was more concerning than interesting.”

     “It’s not like they’re going scale the wrought, iron fence and brick columns, Arthur,” she replied. “It’s ten feet tall with cast iron spear points!”

     “Doreen,” he sighed again. “People nowadays are getting crazier and crazier!”

     “Stop the car,” I muttered.

     “I think we should–”

     “Dad! Stop the car!”

     My father slammed on the brakes, causing me to hit my head on his headrest. I let out a quick breath as I rubbed the upcoming bruise. My mother turned around in her seat–facing me–with a concerned expression on her face.