Stay Here With Me [prequel]

Part one of Chapter one.1

Emily Levitin2

The whirring sound beat from the wheels and chains of my bike, and I knew that I was going to have to stop pedaling sooner or later—I was going down a hill. We'd recently moved here. My small one-story house lay at the bottom of the hill, a bit disarrayed, old, and messy. We hadn't cleaned it up yet, the money we were supposed to use for it's setting-up all went to food and liquor for my father. You see, he likes the real expensive kind. I'm a bit afraid to admit, I'm terrified of him whenever he's drunk. He gets abusive and obnoxious, very loud. My mother died a year ago, so now I go to therapy because of it. No one knows about it except for my father. I have to pay for it, using my college savings that my mother had accumulated over the years. I'm going to college in two years, and frankly, I don't know what to do—or actually, how to go. I suppose I'm going to have to work real hard. Other than that, my life is pretty settled in, and I've already started my junior year in high school. 3

I skid down the hill, my wheels whirring louder now, and my backpack straps loosened from the wind impact going down. It was a steep hill, and I went fast. I didn't dare to release the bike's bars, so I leaned forward pretending as if I were speeding down the hill on my legs. Faster, quick smooth movements in a flash. I liked to run, I'm very quick. I used running as my self-therapy until one night my father snapped at me going for long runs in the afternoons. He didn't care whether or not I kept my grades up, but somehow I managed to do just so, but he didn't like the fact that I wasn't home to do his biddings and whatever he wanted. We had a very spacious neighborhood and a very gossipy one before. When my father got louder and louder, everyone knew what happened in our house, our fights. It's why we moved, he didn't like them at all. 4

So now here I am, currently going to Calder High, in a small neighborhood where no one cares what happens. My father keeps a close eye on me now, so I can't go out and run. We've talked about my therapy sessions once when he was sober and reasonable, but somehow I always end up paying for it anyway. It got to the point where it was too expensive for him, and I had to start paying it with my college savings and whatever I had accumulated with my jobs. Which reminds me, I have to find a job here somewhere. I didn't know what, but I had to. 5

I reached the end of the hill, where eventually I had to slow down and start pedaling at a slower rate, and turned into the small driveway. My dad's old Toyota was stuffed in the corner of the driveway, ignored. I walked my bike into the backyard, underneath the back porch. My legs ached for me to get into my bedroom and just lay down. Slipping the keys out of my pocket, I put the key's teeth into the door lock and turned, pushing the door open. I heard a snore, then a cough. My dad was a heavy-sleeper, and his drink was spilled all over the coffee table where he rest his feet. The T.V was still on, talking about a paid program which I didn't care for, and I don't think he cared for either. I smelled the beer, and wrinkled my nose, reaching over his legs to get the remote from the armrest of his chair. 6

I turned the T.V off. Our house was really small, one bathroom, two bedrooms. It also smelled like cigarettes due to his constant smoking. I took a cigarette butt out from between his index and middle finger, which was already burnt out and dropped it into the ashtray. This was my routine everyday, turning off the T.V, cleaning up after him, homework. And on therapy session-days, go straight to the public library nearby, then to the therapist office, come home and get yelled at for not being home early. 7

Stomping into the kitchen to get a rag for his spilled beer, I noticed the refrigerator door was open, and around it was a bit chilly. I shut it with my knee, and grabbed the rag from the kitchen sink. Going back to where the beer spill was, I leaned down to wipe it from the coffee table, then started to try and wipe it out of the rug. I emptied the rag's contents into the kitchen sink, and washed the dishes. Normally, when I start washing the dishes, he would wake up. I heard another coughing noise, then the chair's springs groaning as he sat up. 8

“Shit, Em, you turned it off! I was watching it!” Click. The T.V started to drone on about another paid program. I watched him through my peripheral vision as he got up, stretched, and came stomping into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator and gave me a look. I resumed washing the dishes. As I turned the hot and cold water off, and emptying the sponge of it's contents, he mumbled, “You gotta go pick up some stuff.” I turned, and he swayed a bit to lean forward and look into the fridge. He takes a milk carton, and I roll my eyes. He's going to pretend that the milk is really old and crappy when it's only four days old. There was less than a cup of milk left in there.9

“You want me to pick up more milk?”10

“Ya think?” My dad shoved the milk carton at me, and I took it gingerly, looked at the expiration date: we had at least a week more. I emptied the milk, then dropped it into the trash can. “Ya goin' now?” 11

I nodded, then took off my backpack, unzipping it. How much money did I have with me? I flipped through my wallet. Nearly fifteen dollars. That was good. “I got cash,” I reminded him when he gave me the expectant eye—the 'you need money, don't you?' kind of look. Zipping my backpack up, I slung it over my shoulder and stuffed my wallet into my front pocket next to my keys. I slumped out of the house through the back door again, and waved. He wouldn't respond. 12

I pulled the bike out from under the back porch by it's bars, and dusted the seat off unconsciously, and walked it out to the sidewalk. I got on it and started to pedal uphill. It was a bit more complicated than riding downhill, you had to put more effort into it. I didn't have anybody to wave to in this neighborhood since I was still fairly new, so I kept a straight face and stared ahead, on my way to the marketplace. Hopefully, it wouldn't be late. 13

My mind drifted as I rode uphill, then turned onto another street to my destination—for milk. It wasn't very far, but it still took some time. Today was Tuesday so I had three more days to go into school until the weekend. I had made somewhat of a friend, we had every class together so it became tiresome saying little chitchat things such as “how are you?” and “hi there!” Maybe we should hang out? Nah, I didn't seem like such of a social person, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to during your Junior year. And plus, she doesn't seem that horrible—it may be a bit entertaining, and might bring some things more interesting. 14

I parked my bike in a bike rack, and locked it in a very complicated fashion. It's been my trademark lock ever since I got a bike, and not one person could undo it but me. It was a bit late, but I'd made it in time for just an hour left, at least. Tugging my backpack on more secure as I passed other people, I wandered into the market. 15