The Art of Hope || Wattys 2017

Chapter 5 ➵ Powerless

Because of You - Kelly Clarkson

I could do nothing but stare at the empty bed.

It looked completely untouched as if no one had slept there last night. The bed neatly made, with decorative pillows in place, and covers folded carefully.
There were no creases on the mattress to show that someone had lain there the previous evening. The blinds were open as well, yet another sign that the room had remained vacant throughout the entire night.
Everything about this moment was abnormal. The voice inside my head was screaming for me to do something, anything, but I couldn't even manage a whisper. All I could do was look at the bed, completely at mercy to life. I couldn't change anything. There was nothing I could do.

As I stood, completely consumed by the bed, I heard the soft padding of footsteps and the door creaked open behind me. My friend peeked around the corner of the dark oak frame and slowly stepped inside. Her eyes darted from the abandoned bed to me and back again. Her chocolate eyes moved back and forth until she finally whispered, "Umm, Amara? Sweetie? I know the bed is super pretty and all... heck I even envy it, but honey darlin'? What's so interesting about it that you need to stand there completely mesmerized? Why am I even whispering? Gosh darn it Amara, what is wrong with you?"

When I didn't respond, she just asked again, this time with a normal voice. "Amara, would you please enlighten me oh, dear, blessed one, on what exactly is so captivating about this bed? Amara! Amaaara? Are you alright?"

"No," I whispered weakly. All I could do was look at the bed, completely at mercy to the situation. I didn't want to believe what I knew as the truth. All I could do was stare, wishing it was a bad dream. That I would wake up and my dad would be downstairs drinking his fourth cup of coffee and reading the newspaper as my mom happily made a delicious breakfast, but I knew this was real. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, it was real. No amount of staring could change the fact that my father wasn't here.

He was probably long gone by now.

"No, Em, I'm not okay," I continued. "My daddy isn't here."

I looked up at her with tears in my eyes. "I think he and my mom are through."

"Amara! Don't say that! You don't know--"

"Yes I do," I responded all too harshly. "Emilia... he's not here. He's not downstairs, at his coffee table, drinking his coffee, reading the news. Em, HE'S NOT HERE!" I cried.

"Oh honey," she said as she swooped me into a hug, rubbing her hand in circles on my back. With her mouth in my hair, she whispered, "I'm sure he's just on an early morning errand or something."

My throat clenched, tears streaming down my face at an alarming rate. I couldn't breathe. She was wrong. More and more reason to believe the tragedy was real managed to work its way into my already frantic brain, and the more I thought about it, the more intoxicating it became. It made more sense every minute I sat there in Emilia's arms. I put it together piece by piece, and the thought that my dad had left, was the only logical explanation.

"No Em," I choked. "You don't understand... See-see the bed? There are no creases on it, that means... no one could have slept on it. The bed is completely the same as it was last night, and the blinds are open. No one... No one was in here last night. And that makes sense because when I... went downstairs this morning, my mom was exhausted. She was letting the eggs burn and there were bags all under her eyes. Not only that, but her eyes were... they were puffy. She had been crying, Em. All night.