Reversal (Camren/Norminah)

Chapter 41: The Morning After

XLI.

I remember when my grandfather bought me my first "big-kid" bike. It was pink, covered in flowers and butterflies with a big yellow basket at the front. It was the one I had my eye on every time the two of us would walk by the local cycling shop, and despite just getting off my training wheels, I was ready to join the other kids as they rode around the track after school hours.

He surprised me for my birthday that year, driving up to the house with a box wrapped so neatly that even my difficult-to-please mother was impressed. It barely fit in the back of the car, even after he had put the seats down and used a lattice of old bungee cords to keep the trunk closed. The surprise didn't last long, for I knew right away from the shape of the well wrapped gift what it was going to be.

On that very same birthday, my grandmother gave me my first notebook. It was more a diary, fit with a saran wrapped lock and key that could be be attached by chubby pre-pubescent fingers. The cover of the book was dashed in flowers that looked similar to my bike, both of which were making me exceptionally happy.

I remember only a few months after that birthday, my mother announced that she was pregnant with Sofi. Suddenly, the pink bike and flowery diary paled in comparison to the new happiness I felt. It was okay that a new little sister was the only gift I received the following year. It was the only gift I needed.

***

When my grandmother died, my parents told me that it wasn't a time to be sad. They explained to my sister and I that she had been in pain for a long time, and that an end to that pain was what she inevitably wanted. Sofi was young, and hardly able to understand the concept of sadness, much less pain. I however, was plenty old enough to understand both, despite how much I wanted to become infinitely immune.

From that day on, I would spend my free time locked away in my bedroom with a computer balanced in my lap and a notebook off to the side. I would search the internet, looking in every crack and crevice for people who experienced the same pain that I did, and trying to understand what they did to make it go away. When I failed to find any answers, I would make them myself. I would create new worlds within the spiral binding of my notebooks, most of which I kept to myself, some I would show my parents.

"Writing isn't a practical career Cami." My father would tell me, as I sat at the kitchen table and scribbled away, my legs swinging in the air. "It's a wonderful hobby, and it exercises the most important parts of your brain, so don't stop enjoying it... but it's not a career."

Not knowing any other advice, I would just shrug and nod, closing the book and shuffling down onto the floor to sit on the carpet and play with my baby sister.

It wasn't until I started middle school when he openly told me off for spending too much time locked away in my room. He opened my eyes. I wasn't able to deny it.

Speaking of opening my eyes, I did so slowly and uncharacteristically afraid as the first thing I saw was a soft white ceiling. I frowned, blinking a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes. Sitting up, I looked around, eyes flying wide when I realized that I was in my bedroom.

My original bedroom. The one in Miami with it's off-white walls and messy floor. With my cluttered desk, chipped wardrobe and ceiling lights that only worked part of the time. With the abstract paintings that had come straight from my old home in leu of an annual silent auction my mother was fond of years ago. There was even a fluffy carpet on the ground, black and white in a zig-zag pattern.

"What the..." I rubbed my eyes. "Where-"

The door opened, and in walked a figure that nearly stopped my heart.