From a File Called, "Things In Your Mind"

                “I hate both of you!” I shouted angrily.  I switched the television off and tossed the remote to the side in my frustration.  My head throbbed angrily as I listened restlessly to my parent’s argument, “If you don’t want to enjoy a movie as a family then I’m going to go do some homework by myself.”

“Stay out of it Amelia Gertrude Wilkes!” my father exploded.  I hated it when they called me by my middle name.  Couldn’t they have thought of a prettier or more creative middle name for me?  My friends all had beautifully flowing names: Gracious Hope Lewis and Holly Ivy Bush, just to name a couple of them.

“You wouldn’t understand, Darling.” mumbled my mother turning from the dispute to pay attention to my complaints.  Fighting was quite normal in our household, but that didn’t mean that I tolerated it anymore than if the arguing were abnormal.  I wished my parent’s could pay as much mind to me as they did to their disagreements about watching a soap opera to the sports game on TV.  Neither of which I particularly cared for.

“You always say that!  You’re always saying how I’m too young to understand these things.  I’m thirteen years old!  What is there out there that ‘I wouldn’t understand’?  How can I ever understand if you don’t first try me?” Just then I stood up abruptly, hoping to appear intimidating enough so that maybe my parents would listen to me for once; slim chance of that ever happening in this household.

“Don’t raise your voice at your mother!  You must learn to manage your feelings, Sport.” My father pointed toward my room and nodded as he said sternly, “To bed!”

I bristled at this comment but, as I rolled my eyes reluctantly, I headed for my room.  When I shut the door, I did it so calmly that no one could have guessed the emotions bubbling inside my little heart and the thoughts flashing through my young mind.

“’Manage my feelings’ my foot.” I growled irritably.

It’s that age where you’re realizing that you no longer have an interest in your old childhood things and you’re led to think about throwing everything away.  You no longer care for that story you wrote in second grade or the effort you went through to appeal to the cute sophomore boy at your high-school.  Your life feels like nonstop school; leisure time has been eaten up by homework and your weekends are consumed by the long days spent at church and Youth Group.

Welcome to the reality of a world that’s always on the run.  Life’s far too short to watch the sun go down.  The few minutes of time free from school are zapped by your parents constant bickering.  Then you’ve realized that you haven’t truly been happy with your life since you were in first grade.  Your parent’s were still young then.  They loved each other’s flaws because it made them the great character that they were.  Not to mention the economy wasn’t pressing your family as much, all of those years ago, with worries about college and scholarships.  Then again, there wasn’t such a big recession back in the ninety’s when you were little.

I leaned my back against the body of the door and looked despairingly at my bedroom floor as if the answer to all my life’s problems might be found in between the carpet fibers.  I sighed heavily as I heard my parent’s murmuring through the wood of the door.  I pressed my ear softly against the door to hear their conversation clearer.  Occasionally blurred words formed comprehendible sentences.  Eventually, having enough of listening to the bombs explode on the battle field, I climbed silently onto my bed and glanced at the colossal cat curled up in the center of the bed. I rolled my deep blue eyes, but couldn’t restrain a smile at the purring mass of fur lying peacefully on my mattress.

I stroked the sleeping feline who consequently stretched its paws out, flexing its sword-sharp claws against the thick autumnal-colored, crocheted blanket near the foot of my bed.  My cat wrinkled up its face and then gave a mighty yawn, exposing small, pointed, white teeth.  The giant, ginger-furred mass, whose name was coincidently Ginger, began cheerfully purring a song to me as she gently bathed my hand with her prickly, pink tongue.

“Well at least there’s one person in this house I can depend on.” I laughed sarcastically as I gently wound Ginger’s tail around my delicate finger.  I chuckled briefly at my cat who had now become exceedingly distracted by a lose piece of yarn sticking straight up out of the net of warm, wooly yarn; no longer folded neatly as Ginger searched vigorously for the stray string that had excited her attention to begin with.

My satisfaction was short-lived and I was soon frowning at my life again.  I had various thoughts, some sweet, some bitter, some of both.  Remembering memories of the good days when my parents got along. I started telling myself not to be discouraged and that I would probably laugh at this, one day. Then I began wondering about the future; my future.

Facial expressions varied for the five minutes I sat in my room.  Smiling at thoughts of bittersweet moments, sighing as I created romantic scenes in my mind which I seriously doubted could ever occur, groaning when I remembered that I had half a report still to finish and shedding a tear as I wished for my life to change.

After reminiscing over the past and sharing thoughts with my cat about the future, I got up off my comfortable perch on the edge of my bed, regained my composure, set about dressing myself for bed and writing a sentence or two for my school report.  There’s always tomorrow, I figured.  Homework, watching TV, life; it can all wait a little while.  As I crawled under the covers and shoved Ginger to the side, I reached for the pull chain of my lamp. I, unfortunately, knocked a book and various collected trinkets and trash off my nightstand in the process.  I’ve always been known to be a bit clumsy when I have a lot on my mind.

I groaned and rolled my eyes, for the third time in the past half an hour, as I reached down out off my bed to pick most of it up.  To add to the situation, Ginger decided to be a complete nuisance and climb down off my bed by using me as a ramp.  When I turned around to see what the strange weight on my back was, Ginger slipped and started to tumble off of my back, taking me with her.  I let a small shout as I anticipated myself squishing my poor, dear cat with my gravity.

When I looked up I was surprised to see that I had landed on a giant pink teddy bear instead of a large orange cat.  Ginger was already at the door pawing pleadingly for the wooden obstacle to move out of her way when I looked up worriedly to spot my favorite fluffy fur-ball.  Ginger looked at me with her biggest, saddest, wettest eyes and made such a pathetic mewing sound that it could have been classified as a squeak.

I relented to my spoiled kitty and allowed her an exit by opening my door a crack and watching as a pool of golden light poured into my room, only obstructed by Ginger’s bulging shadow.  Ginger cried out her gratitude and escaped through the small opening.  I noticed a large scuffed, brown, leather shoe in the doorway and stopped myself from slamming the door on it.  I sighed patiently but continued to focus my gaze on the foot.

“Are you alright?” came the warm and worn voice of my father.

“Yeah…Just the usual bump on the head.” I muttered, “I’m fine, no ice or anything.” I persisted, answering my father’s unasked question.

“Alright then, Charlie; if you need something, just holler.” ‘Charlie’ was my dad’s nickname for me.  When I was just a baby and my parents were deciding on a name for me, my mother wanted to name me Amelia and my father wished to name me Charlene.  There was a short argument about my name and, being a kind gentleman, my father ended up yielding to Mother’s choice of name.  He still tells me that I look more like a Charlene than an Amelia and still calls me Charlie, to my mother’s dissatisfaction.  I have a feeling that my middle name was not his choice either.

He turned to leave, but then thought better of it.  I could feel his gaze on my soft-brown waves of hair.  Then he quietly lifted my chin up with his thick, leathery forefinger so that I was staring into eyes: full, dark, and piercing.   As if some silent apology were spoken, I replied softly, “It’s okay; I’m used to it.  I just wish you two didn’t spend so much of our together time arguing.”

Dad was quiet.  I let go of the side of the door and allowed it to float gently open, more gold channeled into the darkness forming a brilliant pool of brightness.  I always was the one with the imagination in this family and I still think of what it would be like to swim among the warm, yellow tide.  I pictured metallic dolphins playing innocently with generous people.  The people were happy; always laughing as if they had never faced fear, pain, sorrow, or death.  Lately I’ve stopped visiting my imagination as much.  It probably has to do with me getting older, peer pressure, or the fact that imagination isn’t valued like knowledge, power, and wealth are.

I turned towards my bed and retreated to the part of my room untouched by the beauty of the glow.  I scooped up many useless things that I forgot I had even left on my dresser: a keychain, several friendship bracelets from random people at school, a deflating balloon, a CD I listened to once or twice, and…  I put the things away in a drawer for safe keeping until tomorrow morning when I’d either find them a home or throw them out with the garbage.  I held out a book to my father.

 “Sometimes I forget how little we use this.“ I said solemnly.  I rested my forehead sleepily on his shoulder as he traced the indented cross on the rough cover and flipped through the delicate, dog-eared pages.  I suddenly realized how drained my energy felt after all of the exertion of conflicting emotions about conflicting parents.  I sighed slowly but heavily as I closed my droopy eyelids softly for a moment.

“I think you should get some rest…” my father’s sentence trailed off into the night as he ambled out of my room distractedly, still clutching the closed book in his rough hand.  I closed the door gently and watched the glorious luminosity being consumed by the murkiness of my room.  Wasn’t life just like that?  Suddenly, life is so bright and glamorous just to be ripped from your hands and shoved into the uncertain shadows of demons.