In Summer We Started

Valentina It was almost midnight. The temperature was warm, even after the sun had gone down at night, and the moon shone its light on my bed, casting dark shadows across my room. It's peaceful, really. Well, at first, anyway. The peacefulness, sadly, doesn't last forever. But that's okay. It makes the peaceful moments all the sweeter. Like, looking back on it, how my parents had welcomed me home with a tight embrace, and how excited I was that the semester was finally over, and I could return and let a smile slowly make its way across my face. I disliked school. School was hell, literally. And sometimes, I didn't feel motivated to do the whole "school" thing, but then, I dream about me being a talented photographer and in the next couple of years—being famous for it, too. In some ways, you can't have one without the other. I try, though. Still, it helped. It still does. Turning on my side, I sigh contentedly. Now, the actual issue at hand—trying to read a book in the dark. Reading a book in the dark is, in of itself, already quite the impossible task. See, this is what I do. Or it's what I like to do. It's like a game when I can't sleep. I have to try to make up the words as I go, figuring everything out inside my head so that, hopefully, I can exhaust myself mentally and drift away—away from here. It's not working. Not when my parents are arguing with a not-so-subtle voice from down the hall. My ears perked up, and distracted, I drop the book, a frown settling between my brows. What's going on? Whatever I heard was not a voice. Not either of them, anyway. It sounds like something just shattered? They never argue this late. Mom and dad would be asleep by now if it were any other night. The usual "ignore it indefinitely" strategy isn't working, is it? If they do argue, there is a structure to it. It comes in spontaneous bursts, and they never burst at the same time. One side will always end up getting verbally demolished by the other who acts smug, as if they're not bothered at all. What I just heard was not okay. Something isn't okay. I slip my feet into my slippers, stifling a yawn. The journey had been a tiring one. I wouldn't want a repeat, but anything was better than being at school all day whilst they tried to "work on it" which is one big bag of lies. I close my bedroom door softly behind me. I look up and down the dark hall, the light too dim to make out anything noticeable. I have to know what is going. So, I creep forward, following the sound of my dad's voice, telling my mom to calm down so I wouldn't know anything, and I ended up in front of my parent's room—typical. The place for rest and relaxation is their battleground. My dad's footsteps make it sound like he's pacing. "You really went and did that? Why did you—" I move away from the door, standing on the side closest to my bedroom so I could make an escape if I need to. My attempt at hiding is good enough. Listening in on their conversation, I focus. My mom's voice rings out in alarm, "Did you have to break that? What is wrong with—" Their voices' have no consistency. One moment, they're loud, and the next, they're quietly seething at one another. I also might just be tired. Of course, I'd feel the need to sleep only once I'm out of my bed, down the hall, and hiding myself away in a corner so I can actively listen in on their warpath. In fact, maybe this is wrong of me? I shouldn't be eavesdropping on them. This is wrong— "I keep telling you to stop. You're in a lot of debt already," my Mom said, her voice gravelly and a tad bit frustrated. I take back what I said. I can't hear her say that and not stay...to gather more information. "We're not doing this. We're not going down that road again," Dad said, and mom cut him short before he could continue. "Oh, really? You've been avoiding talking about this. It's not fair." Her voice had risen to a high pitch, and I knew she didn't care, at this point, if anyone heard her. Even the neighbors, too. Dad suddenly bursts into a round of shushing noises, repeating it again and again. "Shh, all right? Shh," and as he says that I imagine him placing a hand on his lips in an attempt to silence her, but Mom huffed, refusing to keep quiet, I'm guessing—it's all loud enough now to hear. Louder, even. "And you think that's going to solve anything? Oh, hell! I'm done with this. You know what? It's fine. I'm f*****g tired of putting up with everything." Mom's tone set me off and I don't know if it was the way she shrieked close to the end of her statement, or if it was the flagging of her arms by her sides, but before I could think, Dad's footsteps rapidly came toward the door! "Where do you think you're going!" Mom screeched at him. "What does it f*****g matter?" he shouted back at her as he pulled the door open. I freeze. "Don't you dare walk out on me!" Mom shouted, and I hear her thundering toward. "Don't you dare touch me!" he shouted back. The door, left ajar, allows me to see a broken glass picture frame on the floor of the three of us, the both of them walking over it without a care in the world, and with Dad is standing, this is my chance before he opens their door fully. I need to move, now! Quickly— I slip away, hide in the darkness of the hallway, closest to my room, my footsteps as light as a feather dropping onto the floor. I watch, hidden from them, as Dad stormed out of their bedroom. That was too close. Too close. My heart pounded loudly in my chest. I wait. I watch. ...Mom didn't follow him out? I guess this is done for the night? And the next thing I heard as I returned to my room, my body drenched in a cold sweat, was the sound of dad picking up his car keys to leave the house—such a delightfully loud jingle of far too many attachments. By the morning, as I explored the empty house, it was clear Dad didn't come home.