night | the dream

I nearly collapse from exhaustion as I shut the door to my bedroom. Sighing, I make my way over to the window, opening it as quietly as I can, trying not to awake my dad, who told me he was heading off to bed without meeting my eyes.

Now resting my chin on my hands, I stare out the window, taking in the view of the country side bellow. The corn field goes on for what looks like miles under the silvery light cast by the moon. I see the barn a few hills away. The chicken coup lays next to it and I rack my mind, deciding if I fed the chickens or not this morning.

Eventually I pry myself from the view of our farm and shut the window, forcing myself to settle down for the night. I sift through the contents of my book bag until I find my novel, Cinder, and lay down on my bed without crawling into the sheets.

A car door slams, but I’m too lazy to get up and check what it is, even after I hear the engine start up and the churn of gravel on our driveway.

I have no intention of reading, as much as my intention is to stay in this dusty farm town for the rest of my life. Instead I begin to think of what I can do outside of Carlisle County, Kentucky. No more haunting memories or pitiful looks. Only freedom.

My thoughts drift one way then another and I mess with my long, red hair, twisting it in one braid then undoing it. Eventually, my thoughts circle to my father.  

Grimy hands.

Burdened smile.

Unable to meet my eyes.

I sit up suddenly, the realization hitting like a ton of bricks; my dad must have started up his truck, probably to head out to a bar and get drunk long enough to try and forget our troubles.

Dead mom.

Money.

Me. I think to myself.

This time I do curl up under the covers, knowing tomorrow I’ll have to face the gossiping neighbors and always pitiful teaches' looks. Even worse than that, I’ll wake up to see my dad on the back porch smelling of cigarette smoke and salty sweat, probably vomiting on himself. And I’ll be the one left to pick up his mess.

wildflower