For the Love of Gemma

Tossing my purse in the passenger seat I slide in behind the wheel of my black Honda civic, start the car, and drive away from the Cafe where I work without looking back. Some days working there is harder than others, like today. If I had to hear one more middle aged, pot bellied, trucker call me "Darlin" while looking me up and down again tonight I might just start stabbing people with their own forks!! The few friends I've had over the years have always told me it's my beauty drawing people's attention. I don't really understand it myself. I mean, I know I'm not ugly but I feel pretty basic when I look in the mirror. I'm 5 foot 8 inches and 140 pounds, athletically built (admittedly more on the soft side than muscled fitness) with brown hair and green/brown hazel eyes. Nothing you don't see every day all around. But for whatever reason people see me as beautiful and too many like to try to posses beautiful things; hints the dirty grabby truckers... Looking up at my small but cute two-story home as I pull into my driveway and park, I can't help but notice the shutters still need repaired, the screen door needs to be hung back up, and the peeling paint definitely indicates it's time for a paint job. I just shake my head and huff in exasperation before reaching over to grab my purse and climbing out of the car. Glancing around on my way to the front door I notice the garage door is closed, 'Hmm, Dad must have pulled his truck in when he got home' I tell myself, quickly dismissing the minor oddity when I'm distracted with digging through my purse in search of my house keys. Finally pulling my keys out, I unlock the front door, step inside shutting it behind me, and lean up against it. Closing my eyes as I take a deep cleansing breath I exhale in relief to finally be home; back, safe and sound, inside my sanctuary. Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived. Almost immediately I notice the heavy stillness in the house, I can feel that something's not right. I stand up straight, reach over to place my keys in the bowl on the stand by the door and, keeping my footsteps as light as possible, I start off for the kitchen. Slowly, I make my way through the front hall until I reach the stair case. I can either go up the stairs to the second floor or turn right and through the living room to get to the kitchen. Opting to go with my gut and trust my intuition, I carry on to the kitchen. I keep my eyes peeled along the way for some kind of sign or anything out of place that might give me an idea about what's going on. I make my way through the living room quickly, all the while sensing a sort of hollowness encompassing the house, like an emptiness threatening to consume me right along with the house. Checking the clock on the wall for the time I confirm what I already guessed, my Dad should already be home from work by now but there's nothing. Not a thing out of place or otherwise suggesting anyone else has been here at all today. I take a deep breath before continuing on to the kitchen to check the notepad that hangs on the fridge door for a note. I can feel my anger and disappointment building as I start suspecting he's gone out to the bar, yet again, trying to find the answer for all his problems at the bottom of a bottle. "I wonder how late it'll be this time when he calls me to pick him up" I grumble to myself in disgust as I make my way to the kitchen. Just thinking about having to deal with his drunken mood swings again has my nerves strung tight. I never know if he's going to be angry or weepy, they're both torture to have to deal with. My brows furrow when I see there's no note on the refrigerator. 'Okay, that's odd', I think as I turn to look around the rest of the kitchen. The only thing through the whole house (other than in my room) that hints at this house being someone's home is the magnetic notepad stuck on the refrigerator door. And even that's only used to pass important messages since we often go 2 or 3 weeks without seeing or talking to each other. "Ah ha! There you are!" I say out loud (and yes, I do often talk to myself. Why not, I'm usually alone so there's no one else to notice my one person conversations). There, next to the kitchen sink, under the napkin holder, is indeed a note from my Dad along with a suspiciously thick envelope. Nosey thing that I am, I decide to peek inside the envelope before reading the note. As soon as I see the thick bundle of cash stuffed inside, the yucky feeling of dread slams into me making my stomach drop and nauseousness bubble up. I drop the envelope, the loud 'thud' it makes when it hits the counter echoes through the kitchen. I can tell from how fat the envelope is there's an awful lot of money there too... My palms are sweating now so I wipe my shaking hands on my jeans before reaching for the letter. As I unfold the paper, all I can think is, 'This can't be good...!' The note isn't long and it's definitely my Dad's writing. I can feel the dread steadily building and starting to spread from my stomach to the rest of me as I read the last words I'll ever get from the only family I've ever known. It takes me 3 tries before I'm able to read the whole letter, with my shaky hands and tears blurring my vision. I take a couple deep breaths forcing myself to calm down enough to finally read what I now know to be a farewell letter. Gemma, Now that you're 21 you're an adult that can take care of themselves. I signed the house over to you. Live in it, sell it, rent it out, do what you want with it. I also left enough money to help you get by for a few months if you're smart about budgeting. You're a bright girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out. Good Luck, Dad "Oh my God! Are you freaking kidding me right now?!" I yell to the empty house as the dread I was feeling turns to anger. I can feel my eyes burn as tears start pooling, threatening to roll down my cheeks. Dropping the pathetic excuse for a "goodbye letter" on the counter next to the cash with disgust, I walk out of the kitchen and head upstairs to my room. The sound of my footsteps as I climb the stairs is louder than usual, like the house is trying to remind me of it's emptiness, that I'm even more alone now. With every stair I climb the echo of each lonely step rings in my ears. The spark of anger I felt earlier fades and the ache in my heart starts to take over. The pain in my chest is enough to have me rubbing it in a futile attempt to ease the sting, even just a little. All the while, the only thing I can think about is how cold and lonely I already feel, and how much I hate being alone. That's when the nightmares are the worst...