Oblivion (Completed)

Henley, cont.

Wyoming – Four Years Ago

I'm out of breath. I tighten my grip on the old, yellowing photo in my hand and push through the front door of my childhood home. I'm here for answers.

I'm wrecked. My messy hair is twisted up in high bun and my mascara is so runny I could pass for a raccoon. I could've flown...should've flown. But like everything else lately, I acted without reason or logic. I got in my beautiful black Sparrow, alone, and let her purr down the highways and country roads without thinking about what it would do to my husband. Without thinking what it could do to me...

I drove fourteen some hours with shaky hands, a pounding heart and a cigarette in my mouth. I sobbed at stop-lights and screamed questions at people who weren't there. I ignored phone calls from Ryan, who was out of his mind worried about me and why I'd left in such a rush. At one point I looked down at my phone and saw a text message that read,

Are you leaving me?

And the best I could come up with...the most I could muster up from my stupid, selfish, broken, little girl heart was:

Jesus Christ. No. I love you. I just need to do this alone.

He he had no idea what was wrong. I left in a hurry. I Threw clothes in a duffel bag and took off within an hour of finding that folder. Within an hour of finding this photo that's in my hand.

I'm 19-fucking-years-old and I need answers. Now. Right fucking now.

As soon as I see them, my insides rot. Dad's sitting a chair, reading the Sunday newspaper like he's some easy-going, laid back person who cares about the rest of the world. His feet are up on an ottoman and Mom's sitting on the couch with her head tipped back and some stupid facial mask on her eyes. I storm in hard and fast, demanding answers that should've been given to me years ago.

"Henley..." The disbelief is clear in his eyes. I've had hours alone on the road to process the fact that I'd willingly come back here, and it's obvious he's shocked to see me back here, too. "Henley, what are you doing here? You should've called. We could've made up a room..."

"What the hell is this?" I scream at my father, holding tightly to the only piece of evidence I have of what I believe to be true. Proof that I didn't have to grow up the way I did.

As if just joining the situation, my mother sits up and squints through the blue goop slathered on her cheeks. They stare at me for a few seconds and say nothing, and I realize just how long it's been since I've been home. I stopped coming home for breaks after my junior year of high school, having stayed in residence halls until I graduated and moved to California for Stanford.

I hated this godforsaken place so much I bought all new clothes and furniture just so I wouldn't have to come back. It's only by some miracle I found this old picture tucked in a folder my parents sent away with me when I left for boarding school.

I only found it because I was looking for my medical records, but I stumbled upon so much more.

"My god. We haven't seen you in..." Dad stammers. "Sit down. Relax. You look awful."

It's been just two years, but the life I've lead and the things I've learned have made me a completely different person than the spoiled brat they had to bail out of near expulsion.

"What is this, Dad?" I repeat loudly. "Please don't lie to me anymore. Please," I'm crying, but not because I'm devastated. I'm crying because I'm so damn angry and tired of the constant disappointment they keep shoveling out. "Tell me the truth. Just once."

"Why does Mom look like she just stepped off a beach in this picture? Why the hell is my birthday written on the back when I look no less than a month or two old?" I yell.