Incongruence (On hold)

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

AMBREE’S P.O.V

I walk aimlessly around the house.  Everything seems different. I know I’ve only been gone for a week but there’s just something off about this place; the paint on the walls looks darker, the lights seem dimmer and the carpet on the stairs isn’t as soft.  I know every corner of this house, every cupboard and doorknob.  I should, I’ve only lived here for seventeen years; I’ve grown up here.  Yet still the eeriness about this place is unsettling. Everything is so neat and clean I feel like I’m living on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens; all the doors are always closed, there is never any dust on the shelves or dirt in the corners. Yet there is still always something off, that one element of the set that doesn’t quite match.  Somehow there is a flaw in the picture, there always has been. I can’t tell what it is but I can still feel it as I walk through the halls of this cold, lifeless building.  It’s as if nobody really lives here, just ghosts floating around the halls dusting and sweeping, because maybe if everything is absolutely perfect in this house nobody will bother to look in the closets and find the skeletons buried behind the rows of coats; hidden under the layers of seamless perfection we have created as a shield.

I make my way to my room where I see my suitcase sitting beside my bed waiting to be unpacked. I know I’m expected to unpack it today; we have to restore the order to this model mansion we call home. Everything must be unpacked and put back where it came from. Then our lives will fall back into the patterned rut in which we have lived day in and day out for the past seventeen years.  We will go back to being the ghosts going through the motion over and over for eternity.  We will return to living without soul, just floating around without purpose and pretending to still be alive yet never talking about the fact that none of us has a body or soul anymore; that we’re actually dead, both inside and out.  I throw all of the clothes from my suitcase into the laundry basket and grab my bags full of hairsprays, conditioner and perfumes I walk into the bathroom across the hall and place them back into the empty spots where they once belonged. I return to my room and plug all my various chargers into the extension cord beside my bed, then I zip up my now empty suitcase and return it to the closet at the end of the hall before making my way down both flights of stairs to leave my basket of clothes just inside the door of the laundry room. I then journey back up to my room.  My room is as spotless as the rest of this place. The papers on my desk are organized and stacked neatly, the comforter on my bed is straight and wrinkle free, the floor has been vacuumed and all the pictures and posters on my walls have been hung perfectly straight. But unlike the rest of the house it doesn’t bother me how perfectly clean my room is, because it’s in my control. I’m the one who made my bed and stacked the papers. It’s the one place in this house where I have the power to organize things according to my preferences. It’s calming and reassuring to know that at least I can control this one room, at least everything in here is exactly how I want it.  But I know that once I leave this room everything is out of my control. As soon as I step past my door I’m in her world; under her control.

 Every kingdom has a ruler; in this house that role goes to my mother. She’s the queen of hearts just waiting to shout those fatal words off with her head every time I screw up. She rules the kingdom through manipulation and fear, nobody would dare to stand against her while in her realm of quintessence; nobody would threaten to disrupt the pattern in her pristine palace.  I can’t stand being anywhere in this house except for my room. The stifling aroma of expensive air fresheners and candles is overpowering and makes it difficult to breathe, like inhaling a thick layer of smoke that clouds the air and fills your lungs with a toxic floral poison. I always feel like no matter where I am or what I’m doing here I still manage to always be in the way. I’m not part of the cast in this show; I’m just a member of the audience pretending to be a character on stage, even though I’ve seen the play hundreds of times I’ll still never be as good as the original actor. I’m the piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.  It’s tragic really; I’m the sick girl living with the ideal family, I make everything harder than it has to be, I cause chaos and havoc wherever I go, but if I step out of the picture permanently I’ll still throw off the balance of the scale. No matter how hard I try to help or at least stay out of the way I still manage to mess with my mother’s plans, ruin the day or make life harder for everyone else here. I’ll never match the set; I don’t belong in this world. I’m just the dirt in the corner.

I check my phone and see I have 6 new texts. I’m not in the mood for social interaction so I don’t even bother to read them all I need is to get out of here before the scent of stale Lysol suffocates me for good. I change into running shorts and a long-sleeved workout shirt, making sure it covers the still fresh marks on my arm. I throw on my running shoes and grab my headphones before jogging down the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I turn around to see the queen of hearts herself.

“For a run.” I plug my headphones in to my phone and search for my running playlist.

“I don’t want you leaving the house.” I glare back at her. “I made an appointment with Dr. Thorne first thing tomorrow morning. Consider yourself grounded until we get things sorted out with her.”

This is the part where I normally yell back and protest that I don’t need to see Dr. Thorne again, and then she yells at me saying that the fact that I’m screaming and shouting over something so little is exactly why we need to go, then I yell more, she yells more, Alex and my father come in and back her up, I get pegged as mentally unstable for causing such a scene, and she ends up winning the argument anyways. Not this time.

“Okay.” I say.

“Really?” She questions my compliance.

“I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” She says with a sigh of relief over the fact that I’m not protesting.

“If I promise to be back in twenty minutes can I please go for a quick run?” I plead.

“Twenty minutes and don’t leave the neighborhood.” She says with a sigh. I smile and head out the front door. I take off into a jog along the sidewalk.  I run to the beat of my music and begin to feel the air rushing past my bare legs and running through my hair, the bouncing movement makes my long ponytail swish from side to side. I inhale the crisp clean air and cherish the freshness it brings to my lungs. My heart rate is rising and I feel the drops of sweat starting to prickle at the surface of my skin. This is where I need to be: outside, running, with my music, alone in my own world. The feeling of me feet connecting with the pavement makes me feel like I’m still connected to the world; that I’m not going crazy like everybody thinks.  These next twenty minutes belong to me; nobody can take this moment away from me. This is my freedom, my therapy and my stress relief. Running is one of the few things that make me feel alive; it reassures me that I’m not a ghost. It gives feeling to my numbness and awakens my body, it brings a sense of clarity to my mind and helps remove the haze from my vision. It cleanses both my mind and body from the poison inside that house; it removes the chemicals from my system. It reconnects me with everything I feel I have lost touch with. This right here is better than any medication any doctor can ever prescribe.

All too soon my short time is up; I cool down by walking the last few blocks back to the house. I feel refreshed, clear and reenergized. I’m practically dripping with sweat so I decide the best way to follow up a run is with a cool, refreshing shower.  I grab some water from the kitchen first before rinsing off my sticky body. I return to my room and sit on my bed still wrapped in my towel. Looking down at my arm I sigh at the now scabbed over lines. I can’t believe how stupid I am. I threw away six clean months for these two cuts. Maybe my mother was right after all, I’m a danger to myself. I should’ve been smarter; there are other options, better alternatives. The worst part is that I knew my mother would make me see Dr. Thorne as soon as we got home. She always checks for new cuts, always. Tomorrow she’s going to see them, she’s going to be disappointed and ask all the questions again. I’ll have to start back at the beginning. She’ll write it all down and tell my parents, and then they’ll ask questions. She’ll give me more prescriptions, and more pills. She’ll talk to the school counselor, who will also ask questions, then I will have to check in with every day and the counselor will tell the track coach. I won’t be allowed to run till the doctors say I’m better.

 It isn’t until now that I realize I’ve been crying. My stupid mistake is going to cost me my only freedom. I quickly wipe away the tears and get dressed.  I know I deserve everything that’s going to happen to me tomorrow. There’s nothing I can do now to make it better.