With the Arctic Monkeys on and a cup of tea, Ivory carefully sat in her window seat that overlooked the busy city of Chicago. This was probably her favourite pass-time. Watching people, reading, jamming out to music, and sipping hot beverages, wearing an oversized sweater and knee socks, boy shorts for bottoms.
Resting her chin on her knees, she observes human nature. Always busy, is one thing she can say and they never have enough time for the little things. Like, sitting in the park on a sunny day or watching the first snow fall of the winter season. It bothered her how no one appreciated anything anymore. It was always new iPhone this or new luxury car that. What about the good old days when there was drive-in movie theaters and plastic curlers you had to sleep in?
Snapping out of her daze as she heard her land-line ringing, she got up and turned the music down, tucking the receiver in-between her shoulder and ear. "Hello?"
"Ivory! Let me in," she heard Wesley call down the line, making her grin.
"Be there in two shakes," Ivory hangs up and darts down the stairs, swinging the door open, and jumping into the arms of her twin brother. Her legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck, nuzzling her face into it.
"Hey there baby sis," he laughs, holding onto her and coming inside, closing the door.
"You're only older by two minutes, so shut it," she smacks him upside the head playfully.
"Those were two very vital minutes, Ive," Wesley sets her down and they both smile the same way: the right corner further up than the left and huge dimples dominating their cheeks. With a roll of her eyes, Ivory brings her brother upstairs.
"Be back in a second," she says and goes into her room, finding a pair of sweatpants to pull on and comes back out. Wesley was sitting in her window seat and she joins him.
"Still a people-gazer?" he turns to her, quirking a brow.
"I prefer to call it studying them," she shrugs, getting her tea and sipping on it.
"Yeah, yeah," Wesley waves his hand in dismissal.
"How's the Wicked Witch of the West?"
"Mom is fine, thank you for asking," he half smiles.
"She still claim everyday that she's thankful I'm gone?"
"You know she loves you, Ivory. It wasn't your fault. We've been over this before," he places a hand on hers, "It was an accident."
With a shake of her head she stands up, going to the piano in the corner, sitting on the bench. Running her fingers over the cover shakily, she pushes it open and stares at the keys. "It was all my fault, Wes," she mumbles, pushing down to sound a C.
"You can't dwell on the past any longer, Ive. What's done is done."
"Yes, but dad is still gone and it's still my fault," she whispers, wiping her wet cheeks.
Two years ago, Ivory and her father had been driving in a terrible storm. You could hardly see past the front bumper of the car. Ivory's father had wanted to stop and wait it out, but she was persistent and they drove on. A few miles out of town, the rain had turned the gravel road to a wet mess and her father lost control of the vehicle, propelling them into the ditch. A few days later, Ivory woke up with an IV in her hand, several broken bones, and a deceased father. Ever since, she's been carrying this weight on her shoulders of her dad's death. Unable to cope, she sought help and now takes therapy two times a week and is on a regular medication. No one has been able to convince her that it was Mother Nature who took her father that day, and not her.
