Trapped in Forever

38 ~ Never Did Normal Mean So Many Things

A/N: Guess what happened today? Well, a lot, I bet, but my own little Wattpad centric world, I reached 300 fans! So to celebrate (against my better judgment because I'm sure I'm running out of chapters, but oh well) I decided to update. Please let me know what you guys think! Oh, and onto the side is a trailer that Blushes Scarlett made me, like, a long time ago and I've probably linked it before but I just found it again, realized how amazing it was again, and decided to link it again. Okay, now I'm done!

The sound of the running water rushing out of the faucet, white gushing out of the coiled, silver piping, and falling into the transparent glass that Dad held under it, his blinking eyes trained onto this as he watched the water crawling up the rim of the glass, bubbling faintly at the surface, filled the kitchen, pressing against the dark green walls, aligned with white colored cupboards with dark knobs with a white, pearl like object in the center, worn with grip, and that steady noise kept me almost relaxed as my eyes glanced over to Mom, with my tailbone pressed against the granite countertops, my fingers curled around the edge and digging into the underside.

She sat at the head of the table, her bare feet coiled around the legs of the chair she sat on, her elbows planted on the lower corners of the white placemat in front of her, her manicured fingers interlocked together, the middle finger of her other hand concealing the golden band around her ring finger, and were clutching the white phone with her thumbs below her palms, brought close to her lips, and it looked like she was contemplating something as Dad placed the glass of water beside her left elbow, the glass clinking against the glassy surface of the dining table. I knew he was going next without even having to watch his feet travel over to the opposite side of the kitchen, beside the refrigerator, faintly humming, the ice maker rattling occasionally, and pulled open one of the cupboards, one that Mom told us never to look through when we were children, because of the orange bottles that littered inside, and he grasped one of the white and blue bottles, the pills rattling inside, and shook out two into his palm. Then he placed them on the table beside the glass of water, and edged it closer to Mom, who merely glanced in its direction before her eyes took that on that void, distant look again.

“Don’t worry, Di,” he murmured, his hand grazing against the shoulder padding of her blouse, wrinkled beneath the fabric, and then he tried to smile, even though she wasn’t looking up at him, her eyes seeming to be vaguely directed for the fruit bowl in the center of the dining table, untouched bananas and Golden Delicious apples perfectly placed inside the ceramic bowl. “Mikayla is a big girl, and I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll be home soon and . . .” His sentence seemed to end there, ending with a faint sigh through his nose, his own eyes looking distant, and then he tilted his neck down at her, and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Then she exhaled, the edges of her shoulders sinking beneath the padding of her cream colored blouse, and she unlaced her fingers, the manicure glinting underneath the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, radiating from the concave holes, and she held up the phone, her expression morphing, and then she dropped the phone onto the table with a bang. “You’d think she’d at least pick up her phone,” she muttered, reaching her hand back, curling her fingers slightly into her palm, and batted it against the back of the phone, sending it skidding into the fruit bowl, dislodging a Granny Smith apple.

“Maybe she forgot to charge—” my dad began to say but he was swiftly interrupted by the sound of the four legs of my mother’s chair scrapping against the floor tiling, a drawled out screeching sound taking over his voice, tired and filled with false confidence.

“You just know she’s partying.” Her ruby shaded fingernails pressed against the upper rim of the glass, condensation gathering on the glass and slithering down in little formed droplets, and she lifted it off of the table, her free hand coiled around the Advil tablets on the table and picked them up, bringing her curled palm to her bare lips and knocking her head back, swallowing them without the water, and poured the water down the sink, splashing droplets against the silver rim and on the granite counter. “Where else would she be?”