Beyond My World

One

There has always been something off about the world. 

Wait. No. I should rephrase that. 

There has always been something off about my world. When I say that, I don't mean that everything revolves around me. It doesn't. I'm not a bratty teenager who gets the moon and the stars and everything in-between on her birthday. 

When I use the word 'off', it sort of sounds like a tic or an eternal disease that just won't go away, but that's not what I mean. I just don't know any other word that describes it other than 'weird', but Dad would blow if I ever said that. He doesn't believe in weird; it's a cursed word to his ears. 

Downstairs, the front door clicks open. It's a sound I have gotten used to because I lay awake each night until I hear it, and only after I do, I allow myself to go to sleep. 

When I hear the familiar click of the door, I freeze for a second at the computer where I'm scrolling through my emails. Emails are the only form of social media my Dad allows. Ha. 

I'm sitting in Dad's office because I can try to convince myself otherwise, but it's his computer, too. He believes in electronics just as much as he believes in the word 'weird', so the only objects in our house that have screens are a computer and his old iPhone 6. He says electronics lie to you and contort the truth, like the news channels on TV. I'm not allowed to watch TV anymore.

 I hear shuffling in the living room, and my heart pounds, and I can suddenly hear every single noise in the house. Robbers. It has to be a couple of robbers. Or murderers. 

And then I hear: "I'm going to get a drink, Andi," followed by a grunt. I exhale. Just Dad. 

My eyes instinctively move down to the bottom right corner of the screen. It's 1:37 in the afternoon. He's not supposed to be home. 

Then I hear the front door slam shut, and it's too late to ask him why he's home twelve hours earlier than usual. He's off to the bar, probably. He used to go there sometimes instead of coming home at night, but he doesn't go very often anymore. I know because usually, he comes home and escapes to his room without making a noise. But every once in a while, he causes a ruckus, and I hear him talking to himself while bumping into walls and furniture.

Dad. He's definitely weird.

He works, of course, during the day and comes home late. Every night, I hear him opening the front door and flicking on the lights long after I tuck myself in, when I'm drowning in the shadows of my dark room and laying on my bed with the sheets  tangled between my legs. He doesn't tuck me in anymore. 

I don't know much about Dad's work, just that it has something to do with space and the world beyond this one. I'm not even allowed to talk about it. Not to my friends. Not even with Dad, himself, for some reason. That's fine with me, though. We don't usually have friendly conversations except for 'Good morning' and 'See you later', but even that has gotten rare.

The thing with Dad and his mysterious job that bothers me the most: he doesn't even enjoy it. I've tried waking up early enough to see him leave, and believe me, it's not a pretty sight. He had actual bags underneath his eyes, all purple and bloated and disgusting. And the bagel crumbs stuck in his beard since the day before were accompanying him out the door. To Dad, his job is like... well, the earth is tilted for a reason. I guess work is Dad's tilt. Better yet, it's his gravitational pull that keeps him from orbiting away into something darker than his job. It's been like this for the past five years. 

I keep count.