the forgotten children

Arisen

The chilly wind from last year crashed into my bedroom window, whitening the glass ever so slightly. I stood, my fingers gripping the window ledge, staring out as the snow fell, brushing the edges of the trees before settling firmly on the grass.

It was a white tear in the red summer of yesterday.

I felt my lungs inhale and exhale like they did every day, but now the breaths felt ragged and warm. Untidy.

Every year on this day, my breaths were coughed out, forced into existence. Holes burning into my back, and I felt a gaze boring into me, silently pleading me to look. I started to turn around before stopping myself. I vaguely remember last year. Eyes.

But they'd disappeared before I could register what I'd seen.

Shaking the memory from my mind, I released my hold on the sill, the palms of my hands red. The spike of fear that had slashed across my chest slowly subsided. Turning back to the window, I began counting the small pieces of grass that had managed to keep themselves from drowning in the vicious piles of snow, trying to forget about the spine-chilling feeling in my gut.

The more reality tried to yank me towards it, the harder I fought to escape its grasp.

A knock on his door startled me from my hazy hold on imagination. Suddenly, gasping, the smooth rhythm returned to my heartbeat, my breaths coming more steadily. The sensation of being watched dulled to nothing.

Letting out a slow breath, I didn't bother hiding my relief.

The floorboards creaked under my weight, as I opened the door, a bearded man of about forty, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes awaiting me on the other side.

"What are you doing here?" my father asked me, glancing at my dotted green shorts, his gaze drifting up to ruffled hair. The brightness of the hallway contrasted to the dark state of my bedroom.

I sighed. "I am doing everything and nothing at all."

"He's doing everything and nothing at all, apparently," my dad shouted, the sound bouncing off the white walls of the house.

"Brilliant dear!" mother called from the kitchen. "the older you get, the more gibberish escapes into the world. Get changed!"

My dad nodded, and only then did I notice the small bag he held in his arms, pink and glittery with the words 'Beautiful People' printed on the front in big orange font.

"you heard her," he said, tossing it to me. "five minutes."

"where are we-?"

"five, six, seven, eight..." my father chanted, his foot tapping against the ground.

"why-"

"less talky, more changey," he said, walking down the hallway, his back turned to me.

"that's not a word."

"I could not care less."

I left the door open, letting the yellow light from the living room illuminate my bedroom, the blue of the sky almost purple now. The clock above my bed read 6:07 pm.

Ripping open the plastic inside the bag as if there wasn't a perfectly fine seal on the front, I held in my hand a wrinkled black fabric.

"you're going to wear one too?" I yelled through my open door, my shadow running wildly across the floor and up the wall.

"Yup," my dad said from the living room. I could hear the sound of steam coming from the kitchen, hissing and spewing. "we can both be uncomfortable together."