memento vivere

chapter two

Having to walk back home past the strange house with bloodied hands and my tail tucked between my legs is bad enough.. What's even more embarrassing is that fact that I have about three minutes to come up with a backstory as to why my palms are now the home to what looks to be an entire glass bottle.

And I've got nothing.

What do I tell them? How do I explain it? That I trapezed down off our second story roof to fulfill my subconscious need of being a fucking peeping tom? That my notebook is unintentionally being held hostage? The same notebook that has my name written across it in big bold lettering and holds all my most personal lyrics in it? I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that. Just make them an accomplice to my actions while I'm at it.

I was hoping that I could climb back up the terrace in order to bypass the onslaught of Mothers questions but every time I apply too much pressure on my hands, it feels like my skins being ripped open and set on fire..

So 21 questions it is.

Where have you been. How did you get outside. What happened. Did you get hurt. Are you bleeding. Do you need stitches. Do you need to go to the ER. Do you need a tetanus shot. Do you need antibiotics. Do you feel faint.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

My brain feels like it's on the verge of sloshing out of my skull from shaking it in so many different directions to answer her questions and now because of my poorly made up on the spot excuse, Dad is grabbing his keys to drive around the neighborhood to find the fictional dog that chased me and made me fall into a trash bin..

At least my hands are glass free now. All bandaged up and it's honestly a fucking miracle that Mother ran out of sticky tape when she did because my hands are on the verge of looking like mittens.. And I can't play the guitar like that.

I can't really complain though. If I hadn't put my nose where it don't belong, this wouldn't have happened..

~

It's getting late now, Dad finally came back. He spotted several dogs he thought could be the culprit and has plans to write a very strongly worded letter to the city about feral dogs. Although what he really needs to write is a letter to the nearest psychiatric hospital about a feral girl who watches people in their houses.

What in the fuck is wrong with me.

I didn't expect him to stay gone for so long but honestly, he probably just used the time to get away from Mother. Probably went down to the bar for a few.. And I don't blame him seeing as their arguments have gotten worse here recently. I should probably be more concerned for them than what I am but I have bigger worries at the moment, like how to get my fucking notebook back. How does one even explain that? There's no way.

I sit and brainstorm for what feels like hours, until I practically feel the smoke coming out of my ears and I can't come up with a single thing besides just walking up to her front door and asking for it back.

So that's what I'll do.

There's no sense in sneaking out this time, not that I could anyway. If they ask, I'll just say that I dropped something whenever the dog attacked me and I need it for school.. It's not too far from the truth, I did drop it.. They'll never know the difference. I head downstairs and fortunately for me, I can hear Wheel of Fortune blaring from the living room. It's time for their game shows so maybe they won't be asking questions at all. Someone's in the middle of solving a puzzle so I know they're good and distracted.. Even after that, I still find myself creeping past the doorway and I'm almost at the front door when the door bell rings out, echoing through the house.

After my heart climbs back down from my throat, I yell out nonchalantly that I've got it and slowly open the door. At first it doesn't register what I'm looking at. All I see is brown. The same brown from before. Brown hair. Brown jacket. Brown shirt. Then I see my notebook. It takes a moment but finally it sinks in that it's in the hands of a guy in front of me. Oh. A guy.. Guy with brown hair, brown jacket, brown shirt.. Making the creep factor sky rocket and I feel my cheeks flush. He stares at me just as I'm staring at him, wide eyed like a deer caught in the headlights and I worry for half a second that he can read my mind. He licks his lips and blinks and I can tell he's waiting on me to speak first but my heart has seemingly found its place back in my esophagus again and I have to clear my throat before I do.