One Last Thing ✅

three things

My house is only a couple of blocks away from Jared's, but I go the long way to kill some time in the wooded area on the edge of our neighborhood. It might be called a park, if that's what you'd consider an ancient swing set, slide, and warped merry-go-round to be.

To me, it's a safe haven.

Home away from home.

I set down my backpack and guitar case and lower myself onto the one swing that hasn't been wrapped around the top of the swing set twenty times. Closing my eyes, I push off the ground and lean back, hair streaming out behind me.

I remember coming here when I was little. Grams would be sitting on the bench about twenty feet away with a library book, and she'd escape into her own little world while I disappeared into mine, the one that I created in my own head.

It's easy to slide back into.

Always is.

Here's my imaginary house, a white one with blue shutters. Not a mansion... I'm not greedy. Just a nice-sized house with enough room for me, a father, a mother, and maybe a couple of dogs. Inside, a pink room with a white canopy bed and a huge closet and a corner just for Betsy.

I picture a meal on the dining room table. Fried chicken. Four places set, one for Grams when she comes to visit. I am sitting at the table, looking from face to face, all familiar, but not, at the same time.

My parents' faces I know only from pictures.

This imaginary mother, the one who didn't try to kill me, spoons food onto my plate. This imaginary father, the one who didn't die in a motorcycle accident, describes his day at the office. Grams fills us in on the plot of whatever book she's reading at the time. It's only a short clip, this scene, but it's one that I rewind and play again and again and again.

When I finally open my eyes, the sun has begun to sink behind the houses across the street. The air has cooled, and goose bumps rise under my long sleeves. I leap off the swing, grab my backpack and guitar case, and head toward home.

The real one.

The sad one.

All of the lights are on when I walk up the driveway. I wince as I anticipate the coming lecture. Sure enough, when I push the door open and walk into the front entryway, Grams walks out of the kitchen and glares.

"You're late."

The smell of dinner wafts my way, all tomatoes and garlic. My stomach turns at the thought of swallowing food right now. Picturing Jared's face when he spotted my newest scars, I'm not sure I'll even be able to keep anything down. But if I tell my grandmother I'm not hungry, she'll suspect that something is up. She might make me bare my arms to her like she did a few weeks ago when I was feeling depressed and slept the weekend away.

I'm not willing to take that risk.

"Sorry, Grams. Practice ran late." I lug Betsy up the stairs. "Be right down."

In my room, I set Betsy gently on the orange shag rug I picked up at a garage sale for a few bucks. I stop at my full-length mirror and stare at myself for a moment, making sure my arms are fully covered, praying that Grams won't wonder why I'm wearing long sleeves in this weather.

I'm about to leave my room when I notice an envelope on my bed that wasn't there when I left this morning. I freeze, staring at the letter, willing it to disappear.

I can't deal with this right now.

Finally, I walk out of the room, leaving the damn envelope right where it is.