Taylor The Turbulent

The August sun had burned my cheeks to the point where it hurt to smile. I was dripping wet and I smelled of chlorine as I walked up my road. My neighbor and best friend, Alec, and I had spent the whole day swimming at his grandmother’s house, a few blocks away from us. As most 13-year-olds would, we lost track of time. It was past dinnertime -- I wondered why Mom hadn’t called his grandma looking for me. I figured I was probably in trouble regardless, so I took my time, prolonging my freedom.    Alec was making jokes about my cherry-red face and I fired back with comments about his cracking voice. All felt right in the world until my house was within sight. We both stopped talking.   “Is that an ambulance at your house?” Alec asked after a moment. I remained still and silent as I processed what I was seeing. Whatever was going on, I needed to get home. Without as much as saying goodbye, I ran home.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I was walking into. As I got closer, I saw police cars as well. My mother was sitting on the front porch step with her head in her hands, holding onto her long, dark hair for dear life. I stopped to catch my breath and was met by a police officer.  “Is this your house?” he asked coldly.  “Yes,” I responded, still out of breath. “What happened? Where’s my dad?”  The unnamed officer attempted and failed to shield me from seeing two paramedics wheeling a stretcher from my front door. My mom stood up but kept her face covered as they wheeled my father’s lifeless body away.