Lilah

Home used to be a place I loved. Coming home would be the highlight of my day. The sounds of family laughter and the smell of a good, home-cooked meal were the best parts. Never would I have ever thought the sound of shouting and glass shattering would become the new normal. I hold my pillow tighter against my ears as the sound of our once loved fine china gets thrown against the walls of the home I used to adore. No matter how much it happens, I still can't help but cry. Especially knowing that it's all my fault. Knowing how much everything has changed over the past two years, it hurts my heart. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs shocks me into reality. I wipe my face clean of the salty tears and blink my eyes at a rapid pace to alleviate their redness. My door opens and my mother comes stumbling in. I rush out of bed and come to her aide. My room is my only escape. I don't want it to become a place for her to take out her frustration like the kitchen. I've been able to keep everything in my room unbroken and I would truly love for it to stay that way. I've even gone as far as keeping my own plates and cups in one of my dresser drawers. All glassware gets broken if left in the kitchen. "Mom," I try my hardest to hold up her drunken form. She grabs ahold of my light blonde hair to help keep herself from falling and I bite my lip, holding back a yelp. She didn't mean to. "Azzy," she slurs, "we ran out of liquor." My heart falls and I mentally scold myself for thinking that she may actually want to converse with me about other things. "I'm sorry," I whisper, sitting her on the edge of my bed, unable to hold up her form that is slightly larger than mine. "Go get me and your father some more whiskey," she mumbles, a sloppy smile on her face. I push my hair behind my ears and straighten out the cloth shorts on my legs. If there's one thing I hate about living in the part of Tennessee I do, it's the easy access to moonshine;my parents' first choice of beverage. "Mom, you know I can't do that," I wipe her chin-length, dark brown hair away from her dull blue eyes. I remember when those eyes used to be bright. "Why the hell not?" My father's deep voice calls out from my doorway causing me to jump in fright at his sudden appearance. "I-I'm 19, remember?" I remind them, nervously fiddling with my fingers. "Donny doesn't care," he slurs, "go to his shop and get it." I look between the both of them, my heart beating wildly. "I don't know where Donny's shop is," I mumble quietly and my father slams his hand against my doorway causing me to jump once more. He's not violent, when sober. When drunk he can tend to be a little bit mean to me. "It's beside Irene's Bait Shop," he slightly glares at me, "you know where that is. Go get it." I remain seated next to mom as I look over at him pleadingly. All I want is for him to have at least a little bit of soberness in him to realize I really don't want to go. "Go before I get my belt," he warns and I rise up from my seat, dreadful memories of him hitting me with his belt in my mind. But it's only when he's drunk. I pull a navy sweatshirt over my head and slip on a pair of flip flops. My father hands me a crisp twent dollar bill and I take it reluctantly. "Be careful, doll," my mother calls out as I leave m room. I pull out my phone from my sweatshirt pocket and check the time. 10:38 p.m I make my way down the stairs and I carefully step over the broken glass when walking through the kitchen. I'll clean that up when I get back. I grab the keys to my beloved older model Toyota Forerunner before leaving out the front door. I enter the driver side and take deep breaths, my routine every time I have to drive myself somewhere. Although driving nearly sends me into having a full-blown heart attack, it's not nearly as bad as riding in the passenger side. Terrible memories come with riding on the passenger side. "Azzy, you want ice cream?" Jake rolls his head over to me, his right arm extended and gripping loosely onto the wheel. I grin cheekily at him. He knows how much I love my ice cream. "What a silly question!" I shake my head at him, the cheeky grin still present. He lets his Ray-Bans fall down on his nose and his brown eyes peek at me over the top of them. "You're crazy, Az." I blink my blurred eyes and shake my head, clearing the memory. I park a little way out of town square. Maybe it wasn't the best decision though. During the daytime, town square is wonderful. It's filled with happy people walking, smiling, laughing shopping, and having a good time. At night, the lights turn off, except for a few distant light poles, and everything is just a tad dark. I've never really been a fan of the dark. I climb out of my car and land on the sidewalk at which I parked parallel to. I wrap my arms around myself, in an attempt to make me feel a little less scared. Loud laughter creeps up the long street from a little ways behind me and my heart falls to my feet. When the boutiques and stores close, Red street's bars open. Due to my slower pace a walking, a trait I've had since I was able to walk, the group of people soon catch up to me. My heart returns almost back to normal as they stumble past me without sparing a glance my way. Thank you for that one, God. I watch the group of five, two girls and three boys, as they continue along their journey in front of me to goodness knows where. They seem like they all are close friends. Or maybe they're just drunk. I like to think they're friends. I imagine them having known each other since they were young kids in school. They stayed friends throughout middle school and even high school. Now, as they look as if they're around their late college years, I infer that the five of them had lost a little bit of contact and tonight, they're meeting up again for old times sake. I hope they remain friends. I let a sad smile reach my lips as I think over my friend group. The pillows on my bed, my feather-filled comforter, my bookcase filled with books I've read over and over, and lastly, Mr. Terrip from my one and only favorite bookstore. Mr. Terrip is a kind-hearted man in his late seventies and he's still going strong. I've known him for many, many years and he's been a guardian-figure for me for as long as I can remember. Even before mom and dad turned to alcohol to escape what I had caused. Of course, I would love to have friends other than inanimate objects and a grandfatherly bookstore owner. I've tried making friends. In high school, I just never really fit in. It seems like in the adult world, I don't fit in either. I don't know where I belong. It's like I'm so close to finding where it is but as soon as I reach for it, I get pulled back. Most likely by my chatter. A trait I've had ever since I could talk coherent words. Mr. Terrip doesn't mind it much. He's also deaf in one ear, the one he turns toward me when I babble but hey, it's okay. The sudden sound of a can rattling against the hard sidewalk sends me back into reality. I peer up and over at the same group of five people as they stand over something I can't quite make out considering they're all so far ahead of me now. One of them throws the drink onto the object, spilling liquid all over it. Another one kicks it and I feel my heart clench. I don't know what they're kicking but I sure it doesn't deserve it. Just as soon as they started, the group finishes and they walk away from the object laughing and talking like nothing happened. I speed up my pace to see what they were doing that to and a quiet gasp escapes my lips as I realize what they were doing. An old and frail homeless man lays on the curb, picking up a few strewn out belongings. As he notices me stopping in front of him, he backs up with fear pooling his eyes. "Miss, please," he raises his skinny arms, "I don't mean any trouble." "No, no!" I say softly, "you're doing nothing wrong." His eyes remain fear-stricken and my heart hurts for the poor man. Who would just walk up to someone as unfortunate as him and just start beating him up for no reason? And to think I wanted that group of friends to stay friends forever. They don't deserve cow pie now. "I'm not going to do what those people did, I promise," I raise my hands to show him I mean absolutely no harm. I bend down slowly and help him gather his few items. "Are you okay?" I question him, my tone worried. "I'm okay," he gives me a little grateful smile showing off his slightly rotting teeth but I'm never one to judge. Only the good Lord knows what this poor soul has been through. "Would..Would you like some money for food or maybe a new coat?" I question him, gripping the twenty dollars in my sweatshirt pocket. He needs it so, so much more than my parents. Even if it means getting hit with the belt a few times. "Really?" he questions in astonishment, his eyes widening, "you don't have to." I hand him over the twenty dollars, silently scolding myself for not bringing my wallet with me as well. "Take it, please," he takes it gently from my hands, "I hope that helps you a little." "Oh yes! It will," he smiles, "thank you, ma'am." "You're welcome," I begin walking away from him and still down toward Donny's shop. I look around for any stores I can go into that a) aren't bars, b) aren't closed, and c) look safe enough for a small teenage girl. I pride myself on being tough. Just not physically, I'm a little vertically challenged at five-foot-two. I cry but never in front of anyone else. Why cry and possibly make someone around you upset when you can smile and maybe make someone around you happy? I pass through the main part of town square , where the tall marble fountain runs, and after passing it I begin to slowly walk down the scariest part of town square. The part where the bars are. Red Street. During the day, it's fine and most of the places are restaurants during the day. Not a night. But, there's no other way to get to the other side of town square. I put on my big girl britches and continue on my path. That is until I spot someone sitting on one of the benches far enough away from the bars that it makes me feel comfortable enough to approach them. Maybe it's another kind homeless person? A friend is a friend, whether they have a roof over their head or not. I approach the bench and the closer I get, the more I want to turn back and walk away from the bench. More often than not, I'm not a good guesser. But, I guess that this man is not homeless. As I get closer and closer, I see the defined shape of his jaw and his wonderfully sculpted arms that are shaped from a distant light off the front of a bar. Just as I'm about to say forget it to my 'let me go see if this man is homeless too' idea, his head snaps to mine. The night surrounding us prevents me from seeing exactly what he looks like but I can feel his gaze on me. It makes butterflies flutter in my tummy a little bit. Butterflies? What am I even thinking? "Just so I feel better, you aren't going to kidnap me right now are you?" I mutter before closing my mouth tightly. That was probably on the top five list of worst things to say to a stranger who's sitting on a bench at night. He doesn't say anything and I'm quite thankful for that. I wouldn't want to embarrass myself further. "Don't answer that question," I decide to continue after a few more moments of silence, although I don't think he was going to in the first place. It's very possible he's figuring out how to kidnap me right now. Very possible. Instead of responding, he just leans back against the bench. Maybe he doesn't talk. He could be deaf. Or, maybe he's scared of me. I don't want to scare him. "I'll be on my way..." I give a small smile in his direction, although he can't see it in this darkness. He can't see me and I can t see him. I could break out in a dance and he'd only see my shadow. Taking a step forward, my foot catches right onto his. You know what, this would happen to me. I stick out my arms, preparing for their impact against the ground but it never comes. Instead, the stranger, and my potential kidnapper, catches my body on his arm. We've got a strong man here. "Wow, that's my bad!" I laugh it off as I stand back up straight. I'm not clumsy. Usually, I'm very steady on my feet. "It's dark, y'know," I explain, for some reason feeling like I need to do so, "I hope your arm's okay! You're foot too. I'm wearing flip flops so my toe is basically broken in half right now." He clears his throat and I tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear. I'm really talking this guy's ear off right now. He could literally have a knife in his back pocket and I'm telling him how my toe is dead. "I mean, I don't know you but the way I picture you in my mind, you don't seem like the type to wear flip flops. I don't know where that sentence came from, it was supposed to stay in my head, that's my bad right there." "Are you done?" the low rumble of his voice shocks me at first. I mean, I wasn't expecting his voice to sound so...manly and just wonderful. Now I really want to see his face. "Yes! I'm done,' ," I nearly faint and he stands from his seat on the bench. The man towers over me. He begins to walk away. "Goodbye," I call out softly and he stops in his tracks as he passes just in front of me. I watch the outline of his tall and muscular figure as he turns to face me. Maybe he can be my new friend? "Would you maybe like to go get some milkshakes or someth-" I stop talking when his footsteps begin to retreat. What's wrong with me? It's like it's impossible for me to make a friend. I'm not that odd, am I? I like to think I'm not. I keep telling myself I'll stop trying but every time I see someone new, there's just this need. I want to be liked so badly and I don't know how to ensure that. I let out a quiet sigh and just continue down Red Street. By eleven-fifteen, I've found a small coffee shop all the way at the end of town square. I sit down in one of the booths and reflect over my life choices. The horrible and unexplainable life choices that come to me in the blink of an eye. Tonight, I chatted off a poor man's ears. A poor, seemingly attractive, tall man who was probably thinking I was a psycho person. Especially considering I was walking around town square in the dark with a pair of flip flops on. I massage my forehead and let out a quiet groan. Oh how I wish we could all just have do-overs in life. "What can I get you?" an older, very tired appearing waitress mosies up to my table. "Oh, I don't have any money," I laugh sheepishly, "I'm not going to order anyth-" Before I can finish, she walks away leaving me feeling down and terrible about myself for the second time tonight. Man, I'm just on a roll. It's times like these where I wish I could just have Mr. Terrip by my side. He's really great to confide in. He actually makes it seem like he's listening. The lady from before returns to me a few minutes later telling me that the shop is closing and that I need to leave. So here I am, walking back down Red Street thinking about how I'm going to break it to my father that I don't have his moonshine or his money. My eyes drift back to the bench where I met that man who didn't want to have a milkshake with me. It's truly a shame on him, I would be a great milkshake-drinking buddy, at least in my opinion. I still kind of want to meet him here again though. Of course I do. I'm all about second chances. First impressions tend to make or break any type o relationships. That's my issue, I need to work on my first impressions on people. I probably won't ever see him again. Technically, I didn't see him. I saw the outline of his body and the sound of his voice. His great voice. I need to stop. He literally said three words that were slight insults. Get ready for a lot of talking tomorrow, Mr. Terrip.