Time

It happened so fast there was no time to think, to breathe, to even react. Time was swirling around me, taunting and teasing me to try and catch it. I would reach out, and just when I’d think that Time would stand still, it would slip from my fingers like grains of sand and begin swirling about in front of my eyes again. By the time I came to consciousness to what was happening, both my parents were dead.
I slipped silently into a dark cloud, my eyes and face showing no emotion; even the most assertive person would merely see a dark shadow hovering behind my usually light and energetic hazel eyes. It seemed ages ago that I ever laughed, or even smiled. The death of my parents had been such a shock that I had not been able to shed any tears. “Strange, for a 3 year old.” I heard someone say. By sunrise I no longer belonged to my poor, yet loving parents; instead I belonged to the State of Alabama.
Time slowed considerably, as I was put through months of long, boring trials, where it was questioned where I was to go. It was during these trials that I began to form stories in my head.
Our family being poor as we were, had never had the pleasure of owning any books. As a toddler I had been immensely interested in the stories my mother invented for me at bedtime. During the day I would spend my free time making up more stories to tell my older brothers and sisters. As they grew from adolescent to teenager, they became bored with my stories, and particularly my family, and left to find work. My two older brothers and one of my sisters, became involved in drugs and soon were a part of the major crimes in the city. My other older sister and brother went with them, but were able to avoid the police. One day we got a letter in the mail saying that both of them had completely disappeared.
The stories I concocted were mere add-ons to the stories my mother invented. Each day of the trial I spent concentrating on remembering the stories I had heard at bedtime. I would either add on to the story or change a certain part, so that the character would have more problems and therefore make the story longer.
I was lost in my imagination of creating stories when the judge suddenly spoke to me, “Lissa. Under your mother and father’s orders, we have decided to not send you to an orphanage. Since you have no apparent relatives, you will live with Mr. and Mrs. Blayhe who have so kindly offered to take you in.” I furrowed my brow. I hated being called Lissa by anyone except my own parents. “My name is Melissa.” I said through gritted teeth. I shifted my gaze to where the judge was gesturing. A short, plump, red-haired lady was putting on her best cheesy smile, which added to the redness of her face. She had thick stocky legs, and short, dimpled arms, which seemed useless against the bulk of her body. Next to her stood a tall, crinkled old man, his folds of skin sagging so that it seemed they were weighing him down. He was about as skinny as you could get. He had little whiffs of white hair, and the tuxedo he wore looked as if you could fit three more of him in it. The red-haired woman suddenly jumped up and down excitedly, making the whole room shake. She waved her hands up and down and said, “Oh boy, oh boy!” I thought this must have been what the umpa-lumpas looked like. The old man just smiled, adding even more crinkles to his old face. I felt a huge jolt, and saw that the red-haired lady had tried to hug me, but instead had knocked me over with her bulk. “Let’s go home! Let’s go home!” She said, still jumping up and down. I struggled to get up. I had bruises on both of my knees. “Home?” I said with a cold tone in my voice. The couple stared at me. “Yes, home.” The old man said in a crackly voice. “No.” I said fiercely. I had had enough. There was no way I was going to live the rest of my life with these umpa-lumpas. I looked over at the judge who just smiled and waved his hand in a gesture to get going. “I’m not going. I’m not! I’m not!” And suddenly, right there, all the tears that had been locked up now rushed out in waterfalls, and I began sobbing, wailing, pounding my fists on the floor. “I’m not going!”

As soon as I entered the house, I held my nose. It smelled of sweaty socks. The couple, however, didn’t seem to notice. “We’re home! We’re home!” The red-haired lady shouted. Again the old man just smiled. I rubbed the places where bruises had formed in the car.
In the car I had had sit I the middle of the two. At every stop sign the lady would jump up and down and nearly squeeze me to death with her bulk.
“I’ll show you your room.” The old man said airily to me, as if he was speaking to the whole house. He led me up a creaky staircase, which scared me enough so that every step I took seemed as if the whole house would fall down. We reached the second floor. I looked around and saw a big room looking like a seldom used attic. There was an old, dusty bed in a corner, and a shabby looking dresser opposite it. I could see some curtains boxing out where I found was my own bathroom. There were no toys, although I didn’t have many when I lived with my true parents. Light streamed in through an old window, which seemed to hang by one nail. The old man left me, and I was left standing in the musty old attic. My shadowed eyes scanned the room. Dust lay everywhere at least 1 inch thick. I spotted and old but useful broom propped up against the wall. I grabbed it, and immediately began shoving all the dust into a pile. I had no experience in house cleaning, (you couldn’t expect it from a 3 year old) except from watching my mother. As I shoved and pushed, much of the dust fell down the stairs. I heard coughing and angry shouts from the man and woman downstairs. I giggled. The first laugh I had had in 3 months. It felt good.
The dark hills at the horizon began swallowing the sun’s desperate rays of light. My stomach protested ruthlessly for not feeding it. Weakened and tired, I propped the broom back up onto the wall, and surveyed my work. The careful observations of my mother’s spring cleaning had paid off. Light was finally able to reach the floor of the elderly attic, showing the work that I had done. The inch-thick dust that had once covered the window, floor and everything else, was now in a neat pile near the stairs. All the cobwebs in the corners were gone, and the old bed now looked a little more tolerable.
Satisfied with my effort to turn my room around a bit, I headed down the fragile stairs. On the 5th step there was a loud creak and I made a mental note to skip that step. The frail old man was bent over a dented stove, stiring something that smelled faintly of tomato sauce. The sulfur smell of the house was so strong it overcame any other smell. The obese red haired woman sat on a blue couch, which sank about a foot or so from her weight. She was watching a rather battered T.V. which needed adjusting every 5 minutes to get the picture clear. She was constantly eating a bag of popcorn. I looked more closely and I could see that several other empty popcorn bags lay scattered about the floor, along with empty soda cans. I wondered if she had eaten all that popcorn and soda just now or if it had been there for awhile. The man and woman turned when I came in. The woman, forgetting the T.V. for a moment jumped up and down and said, “She’s here! She’s here! Let’s have dinner! Let’s have dinner! I’m starving! I’m starving!” I had to hold on to the railing of the staircase to stay standing. I wondered if she really was starving after all that popcorn. I smiled weakly at her and stumbled over to a tumbled down looking table where the man was setting down steaming plates of spaghetti. He gave the woman 3 plates covered in the noodles. Aside to the man I couldn’t help but ask, “Does she always eat that much?” The man gave me a questioning glance but nodded ‘yes.’ Dinner was very quiet except for the fat ladies constant munching and grunts. I looked over at her and then back at my plate. Hungrily I ignored the lady and shoved down the spaghetti. Feeling that I couldn’t take watching her eat any more, I left the table and slipped upstairs, being careful to skip the fifth step. I jumped onto my bed and cried myself to sleep.

Morning proved to be clear, and bright, the suns rays danced upon my sleeping face. I woke with a yawn, stretched, and opened my shadowed hazel eyes to the world outside my window. Sunlight sparkled on every living and non-living thing. I interpreted that God was teasing me. I angrily stamped downstairs, jumping purposely on the fifth step, which made an earsplitting creak. I smiled devilishly at the man and woman who looked curiously at me. Then the woman ran over to me and said, “Hallo, Hallo! What do you want to do today? What do you want to do today?” I guessed that she had a habit of saying everything twice. I said nothing, but gave her a cold glance, and sat down in one of the chairs, pouting. The old man came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away.

~This story is not finished either. I started writing it, but i have run out of ideas of where the story should go. if you have ideas for me, email me at clushington@yahoo.com. in the subject box put, 'idea for Time.' thanks much!~