He Came Home

In my bed, I see my feet in front of me. They sway side to side. I only like my right foot. I don't like feet. Mine are an exception because if I didn't have them I wouldn't be able to walk. They aren't like my hands. I like my hands. They are pretty. They tell stories that are interesting. The cut, between my right pointer finger and my thumb, that I got from cutting an apple. The apple that I hand picked from a tree in Connecticut. The one stop on the whole vacation I enjoyed because it seemed my family was at peace. No fights. Nothing.
My right hand is a bit boring. It has two freckles that look like eyes when I ball my hand into a fist, tucking my thumb under my fingers just so. Most kids- or even people have to draw these marks to make hand puppets. I am lucky. They are made for me. They are light brown flecks on my skin, but they are there.
My nails, usually cut short because I like to see the skin underneath my nails when I look at my hands, get dirt stuck easily. I catch myself scrapping the dark, almost black, scum from my soft pink nails. I wonder where it could come from.



Maybe I should clean my room. My room is a mess. Not in the same way clean people say it is messy- like a few pieces of paper on the floor, books un-alphabetized- I mean pants inside out on the floor, a plate of half eaten frozen waffles out, empty, and some half full, beer bottles around mess. In my head I imagine cleaning the mess. Folding my clothes. Hanging my jackets. Organizing my books, papers, pens, and notebooks with scribbles inside. When I clean I organize. When I organize I end up losing half my things. I can't find that paper I wrote on the Ginkgo tree. The one where I wrote a section on how the leaves are green and in a lot ways are similar to frogs. Not because the tree can hop away, but because the leaves look like little frog feet, paws, pads? Right now, that paper is under my book bag. Yet covering my math book. My math book can be tossed. I won't need that again. I hate math. I liked the people in my math class. I should stay in contact with them. I think it might be a bit late to think about them now. I remember the one bitchy girl in my class came to my apartment once when I had a party. And the nice boy that sat next to me. He was nice in a different social setting. The bitchy girl was a bitch. I thought she would be. I mistook her bitchiness for coolness. I know she knew she was cool. I am okay with people like that. I don't think I am cool. I know that for sure.
Sometimes I know I am weird. Not weird in a creepy bad way. More like weird in a funny, awkward, creepy way. Probably not funny-ha-ha funny more like oh-my-goodness-she-didn't-just-say/do-that-did-she?-yep...-she-did-kind of way.
Then the lock begins to jiggle. I hear a set of keys clank on the door. The swishing noise of the door sweeping across the hard wood floors made my heart stop. Then I hear the monstrous voice. He is stomping toward me. My cracked door is now swinging to the full open position. There he is standing tall with his eyes glaring. Mad doesn't begin to explain his mood. Behind him, even though he may be taller, is my brother. He looks small, insignificant. He can't help me.

I woke up.