Prologue II – On My Own


The Loss.

She was slowly coming to awareness after a long, restless night. The blankets had been pulled up to her chin, despite the warmth of the house. She had had a feeling throughout the pre-slumber stages that something dreadful would happen.
     The silence of the room was prodded at with hushed voices from the top floor: the attic. She could hear the soft tapping of bare feet above her head and the creaking from the floor beneath them. She took in a deep breath, trying desperately to relax.
     He's finally going to tell his father, after all these years, she thought to herself, snuggling deeper into the depths of the bed. Without realizing it, she began to focus her hearing on the voices from the next floor. None of the words came out as anything but sound. There were no distinguishable syllables or sounds within them.
     She tried to think of something else to occupy her time. She was afraid that her leaving the room would somehow interrupt their talk, so she decided to stay still. She considered listening to music, perhaps something by her favorite artists to wash away the sound, but that would mean giving up the meager chances of her overhearing something important. She knew it was wrong, but she wouldn't be able to face him about it afterwards. Telling your father that his wife is a criminal would definitely leave some type of scar on either or both of them.
     Instead, her mind swirled through the possible versions and outcomes of the conversation.

He would walk into the room to see his father gazing out the window. "Hey, uh, Dad; can I, uh, talk to you for a sec?" He would ask slowly and unsurely as he cautiously stepped into a very dangerous topic.
      "Sure, what is it?" The older man would turn, with a smile, to face his son. The smile would definitely be the hardest thing to see. The boy would surely avert his eyes.
     "I want to tell you something…" he would mutter, eyes cast to the floor, running along dust patterns for a distraction. His focus would change around the room as different memories would pass through his mind. He would notice the boxes in the corner stuffed with a teenage girl's belongings, and tears would well in his eyes. "Something… important," he would add, his eyes completely focused on the boxes.
     His father would turn to see what the boy saw, and the smile would fade. "Ah, I see. Come, let's sit in the parlor and discuss it." He would make slowly for the door.
     "No," the boy would persist, "I should tell you here… now." He would slowly bring his gaze to meet his father's, tears long forgotten. He would stand erect, feeling confident in his choice of words.
      The father will look at him in confusion, baffled by the child's cold, heartless reaction. He would figure that the talk would not take very much time. "Alright, we'll discuss it here, then…" He will step to one side and pull up a chair, sliding it to the center of the room. The father will sit and give his son undivided attention. "What is it?"
     "It's… it's about mom." The boy's gaze will drop, his father's carefree attitude bringing his spirits and confidence down.
     Immediately, the adult will be on the defensive. He will give his son a challenging and questioning look. "What about her?" he will ask slowly, daring the boy to pull a wrong move.
     The boy will think carefully about his next word, considering every option. He will finally decide that mincing words would not do the crime justice, and he says it straight out. He will feel relieved at finally revealing the secret, but still tense, waiting for his father's reaction.
     The man will sit in silence, pondering the words, trying to consider evidence for and against this. He will be thoughtful, and consider both sides. Of course, before he chose one side over the other, he would need to hear the other side. After that, he will decide whose side to take.
     "Okay." The father will say after careful calculation.
     "Okay…?" The boy will react, confused. "Is that it?" He will be angry and hurt inside, feeling defeated. He won't have won, but it would be a start.
      "For now…" The father will rise, and descend the stairs, leaving his son alone amid the dust-covered memories. He will not forget the conversation; neither of them will, and they will continue to ponder the events and outcome.

She considered this silently, taking a sip from a glass of water that had been placed on the nightstand the night before. The lull of the two voices above her head escalates, growing to a normal spoken conversation. She shook it off as forgetfulness on their part and tried to focus on anything else.
     She tried to return to sleep, remembering her more polite side. Even if it was just pretend, to assume things and "eavesdrop" would be rude. She wasn't rude, or at least she tried very hard not to be. Before she met him, she never would have even considered pushing the boundaries of politeness and manners. It was his fault, though the way in which he was a rogue but didn't overdue it made her respect him in a way that surpassed the norm.
     With that thought in mind, she considered another scenario. Just as she was about to be absorbed by her focus, the volume of the voices rose more, until they were shouting. She bit her lip; it wasn't going well.

Both would be standing, father and son, in a face-off. Both would be tense, faces red with anger. "How dare you accuse your mother of such horrid things!" the father was articulate, even in anger.
     "Do you need proof?" the boy's voice rose to meet the challenge. He rolled up the sleeve to his sweater, revealing gruesome scars, scabs, and bruises. "I'll show you proof!" there was hysteria in his voice, as if he had lost his mind completely.
     "Have you been getting into fights at school…?" the father's voice lost it's bitterness upon the sight of the disgusting wounds. "Don't hide these kind of things from me." He would say, menacingly.
      The boy would be outraged. "I'm not hiding anything! I'm not getting into fights at school. I already told you the truth!" He would take in a long, calming breath, and drop his volume. "When I lied to you a very long time ago, I got in a lot of trouble." He pauses, will be acknowledged, and continues. "You told me to always tell the truth because it'll be easier that way, remember?" He will receive a nod in return. "And since then I have told you nothing but the truth in all matters while somehow managing to conceal this. Why do you doubt me now?"
     "You have changed, don't you see that? She has changed you." His father will insist.
     "Is that good or bad?" he asks, challenging once again.

The sound of breaking glass shattered her reverie. Her initial reaction was to sit up in bed immediately. Her heart, racing, she started towards the door.
     He shouted her name as he ran down the stairs. She could hear his pounding footsteps from one side of the door. His voice sounded distressed, and then the Doppler Effect washed it away, mostly.
      Disregarding the fact that she was only in a tank top and flannel pajama pants, she flung open the door, and sprinted down the staircase, following the sound of his voice. She could hear him calling as she heard the sound of the front door being thrown open and banging against the inside wall.
     She followed his course until her bare feet met snow. She froze, looking on in horror at what lay before her.