Youth || Crikey! It's the Irwins

1. Little Bird

          You snapped the silver clip into place, sighing heavily. This wasn’t what you wanted, never was, never will be. Moving was okay, especially when Dad said it was only a couple blocks and you’d still be with your friends. But another city, another country? No, too much. 

          At least he broke the news to you a year ago, so you’ve had time to prepare. 

          Glancing about, you notice the one poster still hanging on the wall opposite your bedroom door. You groan tiredly and make your way over to it, eyes training on the detail and focus point. 

          A woman, late twenties, with blonde hair made gray with the black-and-white filter. She wore a frustrated yet patient expression and a subtly plaid blazer, open and unbuttoned, over nothing but her black bra. Her left eyebrow had a vertical line of hair missing from it, which added to her punk look. Lynn Gunn, lead singer of a famous alternative punk band, PVRIS. 

          Lynn would never change, that was something you could count on. 

          There was a knock on the door as you began to peel the poster’s tape from the wall. The door behind you opened and you really didn’t need to look to know it was Dad poking his head through. He was the only other one that lived with you, sadly. You almost groaned aloud but feared the strange echo an empty room gave, so you shut your mouth and turned to the man. 

          He stood about half a foot taller than you, but his relaxed slouch made him look only a few inches higher. His white teeth flashed as he grinned and opened the door all the way. 

          “You ready, kiddo?” 

          ‘No.’ You responded in your head with spite. Though, you shrugged and mumbled, “I guess.” You nodded to the backpack on the carpeted floor. “I got my carry-on ready.”

          Dad smiled, not exactly knowing what to say. “Awesome,” he tried. “We’ll leave in a bit, so…” He never knew what to say, never had an idea of how to console you, not since Mom. 

          It was horrible, what happened. You couldn’t get the sound of it out of your ears but the more and more you tried the less it budged. So you settled for hearing it until you slept, until the sound faded into nothing, and the night prevailed over the day, and the fan whizzed it's quiet hum into your brain, an ever-calming song of peace. 

          You nodded to him, feeling more grim than angry now that the inevitable was finally upon you. “Okay.”

          Dad lingered a few seconds longer than you wanted him to, hesitant to leave you but reluctant to say something. Or maybe he was trying to think of something, anything, to say but couldn’t because—

          “I’ll drive you through dinner,” he said quickly and before you could respond he whispered, “I love you, kiddo.” 

          Just about to roll your eyes, you whipped around to face him but stood frozen. He was gone and left empty your room— save for a bag, a poster, and a child crying for the second time that day. The tears leaked from your eyes as your chest shivered violently from your sputtering breaths and you covered your mouth with your hands. “God,” the whisper fell, “I’m sorry.” 

          The apology was meant for Dad, but it seemed like you were apologizing to the heavenly being. 

          You weren’t sure why, but you were sorry for the way you’d been treating your father. Not that you’d been treating him badly, but the absence of your mother had shaken your relationship with him. It didn’t seem like it would heal soon. And this move to Australia didn’t look like it would help the situation at all.