The Twilight Saga

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This is a shortish story that I hope you'll like. It's kind of intense, just so you know. Tell me what you think.

My best friend in the whole wide world got me started on heroin when I was thirteen. I remember that birthday well, because it was the day my mom died in a car crash.
My best friend’s name is Andre, and he’s the best because it was him who helped me through the loss. Dad just sort of disappeared. I mean, he was around, just, not like a person is around. He stopped being...normal, I guess. He wallowed in this own misery, leaving me to work through my own alone.
Except I wasn’t alone, because Andre comforted me. He’d given me the little white bag of heroin, telling me his uncle had brought it back from Venezuela. I’d inhaled, and all my grief had faded away...
My hands were shaking as I struggled with the little bag in my hands now. Finally I got it open. I pressed it to my nose and breathed in, feeling the powder tickle my nostrils as it floated into my head...
The effect was pretty instantaneous. I felt energetic, on edge, and cheerful. All the things that made it easy for me to go to school.
Nobody gave me weird looks anymore; my behavior change was old news. Before heroin, I’d been a bit of a scary person. My muscles always tense, a violent look on my, I looked high. Of course.
I had no license, even though I was nearly seventeen. I’d flunked the driving test six times. Heroin and driving tests don’t mix.
I walked to school everyday. It took me ten minutes. A car honked as I crossed a road; I’d not been paying attention. Heroin does that, sometimes. I flipped off the driver.
“Diane,” my boyfriend, Caleb, said, greeting me as we met each other in front of the school.
“Caleb,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his cheek. I let my tongue slide out of my mouth and taste his skin before pulling away. I smiled playfully at him, and then hugged him.
He winced. I hugged him tighter.
There are two things that I love more than anything else in the world: the first is heroin. The second is hurting people. I know what you’re thinking—it’s sick, right? Yeah, yeah. But Caleb didn’t mind; he’d say something if he did, wouldn’t he?
I liked to hurt him. I like punching and bruising and pinching. Even now, my nails were digging into his upper arm, leaving tiny, brown spots. If you pulled his shirt up and looked at his stomach, you’d see a huge splotch of purple, made of many bruises that overlapped. I like to cause people physical pain.
I know exactly how long it takes before a teacher comes over to break up the hug or report me for PDA. Two seconds later, I pulled away, seeing a teacher turn around to look in our direction.
Something seemed off about Caleb today. Caleb is a quiet, caring guy. He’s also innocent, and selfless, and good. I haven’t had the heart to get him on heroin. But surely the guy deserves heroin? Shouldn’t good people get rewards?
Today, he seemed unhappy. Why?
The day passed in a blur, as it often does when I’m high. Before I knew it I was sitting at a lunch table, my foot hooked around Caleb’s, eating some god-awful food the cafeteria demons cooked up.
“D’you wanna go out Friday?” I asked Caleb. And then I had another thought. “Or we could stay inside.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
As a faint pink colored this “not until marriage” virgin’s face, I could guess he was thanking God that we were the only two at this table.
“C’mon, Caleb,” I whispered seductively. “There’s no way I’m getting married this year, and I’m not waiting forever, so...” I trailed off. It’s always kind of hard to talk when I need to inflict pain. Sometimes I get those kind of cravings—abuse cravings. To satisfy this one and to keep on topic, I pressed my hand into his bruised stomach.
He gritted his teeth against the pain and winced. I pulled my hand back, smiling widely.
“Diane, we need to talk.” Caleb said.
What the H**l. Had he been watching some crappy melodrama on TV?
“I can’t deal with this anymore, Diane,” Caleb said. He looked me in the eyes, and there was sadness there. I cringed. It reminded me of Andre, the day he’d told me he was moving cross country. “I can’t be in this relationship anymore,” Caleb continued. “I can’t watch you hurt yourself by being on drugs and be high all the time.”
What?!? I’d never told him I was on heroin!
“I’m sorry, Diane. I care about you a lot. Really. You might not believe it, but it’s true. But I...I can’t be apart of this anymore. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him, dumbstruck. “You’re...breaking up with me?” Caleb, the values guy, the caring, loving guy, was breaking up with me?
“I’m sorry, Diane. I’m really sorry.”
I was at a loss for words. Caleb waited for a response until the bell rang. And then he walked away.
He walked away from me.
He walked away.

Time passed. I turned seventeen. I got over Caleb. He was a softie. I needed someone stronger. Someone who wouldn’t be so whimpy over a couple of little bruises.
Things got worse. I needed someone to abuse. Bullying just didn’t satisfy my violent cravings. I couldn’t be me without the combination of heroin and abuse. But who could satisfy my needs?
“We have a new student today,” the math teacher, Mr. Brender, said in February.
My jaw dropped as the new student silently took his seat. He was absolutely gorgeous. Even three rows in front of me, I could tell his face was flawless; it was pale as snow. His hair was a deep, chocolate-like brown; short as it was, it flowed beautifully and shined. As class often does, it passed in a blur. But it was a different blur—I wasn’t simply floating around in the ecstasy of heroin; I was staring at the beautiful guy in the front row. He captivated me.
The bell rang, making me jump. I sped to the door, hoping to see the new guy’s face. Had Mr. Brender said his name? I couldn’t remember.
I did get to see his face as he packed up. His eyes were stunningly golden; they were breathtaking. His jaw was square and set in discomfort. There was something scary about him, as if he was dangerous.
I knew it. I knew that he was the guy who would satisfy my violence. I was already imagining what his lean, muscular arms would look like with bruises on them; purple would contrast with his white skin so strangely. So nicely.
“You’re new here, right?” I asked the student. Before he could answer, I said, “Hi, I’m Diane.”
“My name’s Jethro,” he replied.
I smiled. “What’s your next class? I can help you find it.”
“Science, room 110.”
“That’s my next class!” Perfect! I wondered how many classes we had together. How many classes could I inflict my violence on him? “C’mon, we can walk together.”
Jethro was a silent guy. Mysterious, quiet....oh, how TV melodrama! He was even tall—he fit the Tall-Dark-Mysterious criteria. That was hilarious. I giggled. Or maybe it was the heroin making me giggle.
I grabbed Jethro’s hand, entwining mine with his. He didn’t pull away; he didn’t react when I gasped at his cold, hard skin. It made me shiver, even though we were in the Very Cold Alaska.
It’d been too long since my days of abusing Caleb. I squeezed Jethro’s hand as hard as I could, letting my nails dig into his skin. He didn’t seem to mind at all; he didn’t react at all. Frustrated, I squeezed harder. Jethro looked at me. He smiled. The smile was tender, soft, but it was also mocking.
I was shocked. How could he be immune? How?
Behind my shock, I was starting to feel a little mad. I had to find away to inflict pain on him.
“Do you have any plans tonight?” I asked. “I could show you around town, so you could get to know the place.”
“Oh, er, thanks,” Jethro said, surprised by my forwardness. “Yeah, that would be nice, thank you.”
“It’s no trouble.” I gave him a flirty smile. “Just meet me at the main entrance after school, ‘kay?”

It was weird, but Jethro and I clicked like kindred spirits or something freaky like that. By the time we’d made it to the playground, we were like best friends. No, we were practically already together!
I leaned on his shoulder. He was flawless.
“So where are you from?” I asked.
“My family and I moved here from Juneau,” he answered.
“You moved here from the capital?” I clarified, stunned. Who’d go to a tiny place like this?
“We...prefer small places.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense, then, to move here.” It didn’t actually make sense. Who likes small towns? “I like you, Jethro.”
Jethro was unsurprised at my forwardness this time. “I noticed,” he answered coolly. “I like you too.”
Good, then he would mind...
I punched him in the stomach. He didn’t gasp or stagger or even look surprised that I’d punched him.
Instead, I gasped. My knuckles screamed in protest. His stomach was hard.
Jethro smiled tenderly again. “Punch me all you like,” he whispered.
I took him up on that offer, alternating my fists as I tried to make my punches hurt him instead of me. I couldn’t he get hurt?! Tears leaked from my eyes—why? I didn’t cry. I was too old for crying. My punches came slower and slower, more desperate with each attempt. I was sobbing; I gave up on trying to hurt Jethro.
“It’s okay Diane,” Jethro whispered, pulling me into a hug. “I’m going to heal you.”

Note: In no way do I condone the use of drugs or abuse.
Here is the playlist for the story so far. These three songs pretty much introduce what condition Diane is in at the moment. Beneath the PlayList is the explanation for each song:

Get a playlist! Standalone player Get Ringtones
"Going Under" symbolizes Diane's reaction to losing her mom.
"Haunted" symbolizes Diane's state of mind in the beginning of the story.
"Tourniquet" symbolizes Diane's need to be saved.

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Replies to This Discussion

I actually hadn't planned on continuing the story--that was the end. But I want to find out what happens to Diane, too. Just warning you now--it probably will be a while before I post again.
this is a sad story!! diane is kinda like me but i don't do drugs, I like thinking & having control over myself & brain cells. Diane keeps her emotions bottled up inside just like me but i don't abuse ppl i just give them a little smack but playfully. the kind of smack tat says we're-friends
i wazn't done commentin i had 2 go anyway gr8 job & keep me posted when u add more pls!! this is really good & can't wait 2 c wat happens.

“Heal me how?” I asked suspiciously. I had finally managed to regain control of that stupid crying. I had to make myself strong again. I wasn’t a wimp.
The heroin was starting to wear off—renewing the high would be the best way to be strong again. But how could I get away from Jethro?
“You’re hurting,” Jethro said, matter-of-factly.
“Of course I’m hurting,” I snapped. “I just bruised my hands on your six-pack stomach!” I glowered.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“There—see? You’re hiding your hurt.”
“Thanks, Doctor Phil—I’m ready to be a better person now.”
“There, you’re doing it again, see?”
“Bite me.”
Suddenly, the freak was laughing. It was annoying, but proved what wacko he was. I used it to make my escape.
“I’m outta here.” I started to walk away. I had a packet of heroin in my back pocket. If I could just get out of sight...
I crouched behind a utility box in someone’s front yard, reaching into my pocket. I started to open—
“So you hide your hurt from others by acting tough,” a voice said. I was so startle I dropped the heroin; the pink powder sprinkled onto the frozen grass.
Jethro continued. “And you hide your hurt from yourself by using heroin.” He lithely leaned over and scooped the heroin into his pocket.
“You a*s!” I growled.
Jethro raised one eyebrow, and I immediately regretted the outburst—it was a stupid thing to say.
“Heroin isn’t good for you, Diane.”
I stood and walked away. My head was throbbing with withdrawal.
Jethro followed at my side, unperturbed. “What I’m trying to figure out is why you’re hurting.” His tone was conversational. It infuriated me.
I said nothing; I just kept walking. Jethro assessed my face as we—no, as I walked; he was stalking.
“Who did you lose?”
My legs locked; I was frozen. This was such a forbidden topic.
Jethro turned around, facing me, and waited for an answer. “Your sister?” he guessed. “Brother?” A flash of intuition flitted across his analytical face. “Your mother.” This wasn’t a guess.
My head was dizzy—it had nothing to do with withdrawal. My legs felt like foam. They couldn’t hold my weight.
“How old were you?” Jethro seemed unaware of how weak he’d made me. It was like some spell—no one else could penetrate me, so they couldn’t see how weak I really was. The only person who could make me show that I was weak and he didn’t notice.
“I was thirteen,” I muttered. I refused to look away from his eyes. That would just reveal my weakness further.
Jethro turned sympathetic. My temper flared with indignation. The a*s was patronizing me!
“And no one’s been helping you get through your grief?” He sounded incredulous, as if this frustrated me.
“Of course someone helped me! Andre helped me! My best friend--”
“Got you on heroin?” Jethro guessed. His expression was still grim.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? I’m fine!”
I stared, open mouth. What happened to manners and being polite and convention? Of course, I’d never believed in any of those, not since I started heroin...
I started walking again. The best away to maintain my illusion of strength now was to get away from the enemy who could bring me down. It was a retreat, yes, but just to organize the army. I wouldn’t lose to this freak.
“I already figured out that heroin didn’t fix the grief, remember?” Jethro walked at my pace, easily keeping up. Why couldn’t he leave me alone?! “I told you before,” Jethro continued, “You use the heroin to hide the hurt from yourself. It didn’t get rid of the grief, it just delayed it.”
“Shut up!” I could feel a traitor shifting around in my head—a part of me that wanted to believe him. I attacked the rebel, fighting Jethro.
“I’m going to heal you whether you want me to or not,” Jethro vowed darkly. “The sooner you’re all better, the sooner you can get rid of me—if you still want me to go, of course—so if you cooperate...”
“I’ll get a restraining order on you,” I threatened.
“And say what? ‘This guy is trying to get me off heroin and won’t go away—Judge, keep him away!’? That’ll work.”
“Don’t be thick. I’ll lie—say you’ve been hurting me. ‘Oh, Judge! I’ve gotten my knuckles bruised trying to defend myself!’”
“Good luck with that. I’m really good at convincing people—the Judge would end up believing me. Trust me on that.”
Considering that I still hadn’t destroyed the growing part of me that was starting to—yuck—trust him, I definitely believed that.
“I don’t need healing,” I insisted.
“That won’t make me leave. You want me to leave, let me be your own personal Doctor Phil and I’ll make you better.” His face turned pleading. The helplessness took my breath away.
When I could focus again, I re-hardened my expression and gave a falsely reluctant nod.
“That’s better,” Jethro praised.
We were at my house now. I started to unlock the door.
“May I come in?” Jethro requested. He was acting very polite now. Patronizing me, again!
“Fine, come in,” I muttered. “But you better be gone before my dad gets home.” I let him in.
“Thank you.”
“Whatever.” I was dying for a packet of heroin. I had to make a quick escape. “I gotta take a leak, be right back,” I lied.
It took me thirteen seconds to get into the bathroom. It took me twenty-one seconds to get the bag of heroin packets from the hole the sink pipe went through inside the cabinets. I went ahead and flushed the toilet; I had a feeling Jethro would otherwise hear me inhaling the hero—
“Step one in healing,” Jethro said. He snatched the heroin packet out of my right hand and the bag of more packets out of my left. “No more heroin.” How had he gotten behind me?
“You’re taking me off heroin!” I flushed, enraged.
“Heroin is not good for you,” Jethro chided.
“Oh, report me to a police officer!” I was beginning to feel really sick. “Come on! I need some!” Withdrawal was driving me crazy. I couldn’t hold onto my calm anymore—I leaped for the heroin. Jethro easily kept it out of reach.
“Who do you receive heroin from? Your ‘best friend’? That Andre fellow?”
“Not jealous.” Jethro grinned, and I couldn’t call him on it. He wasn’t jealous. And he didn’t want heroin.
“Yes, I get it from Andre.”
“Through the mail?”
“Yes. What, are you going to go through the mail before me?”
“Yes. And I’m going to raid your house tonight and take away all your heroin. As for these...” Jethro stretched his arms out, suspending the heroin over the toilet.
“NO!” I realized there were desperate tears in my eyes as Jethro flushed my most important treasure down the toilet. “No, no, no!” I fell to my knees and wept as if the world was ending.
Jethro made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t believe this. You’re so tough, right? If you were truly the tough girl, you would be tough even in a time of loss.” Though his voice was sincere enough, I could tell he didn’t see his disposal of heroin as a loss.
I gritted my teeth, focusing on my rebound. He already knew I was weak—why show him how weak I was? He would be my downfall!
“Get out,” I growled. “Get out of this house now.”
Jethro was still calm. It was enraging.
And then he left, leaving me on the bathroom floor, boiling with wrath. I wanted to break something. Weird—yes, I was violent, but I preferred hurting others to breaking stuff. I was losing it.
I found this chap funny but i have a weird senes of humor but still... i really like how Jethro acts i think it's funny. anyway good job & keep it up! Let me know when u add more pls. can't wait 2 c wat happens w/ Diane & Jethro- i think it's gonna b interestin.
Thanks! I'm working on writing it write (ha ha bad pun) now.

My alarm clock yelled at me. I sat up.
I was dizzy; I felt sick. I moaned and fell back onto the pillow. My hand snaked out from under the covers and turned off the alarm. I was so not going to school.
“Rise and shine, Diane,” Jethro said.
I sat up again, ignoring how awful I felt. How had Jethro gotten in my room?!
“How—?” I began.
“I’m not telling,” Jethro interrupted. “Not today, at least.” He smiled. He was leaning on the far wall of my tiny bedroom. “Come on, Diane, get up. School waits not for withdrawal.”
“Go away,” I moaned, lying down again.
“Migraine,” I corrected.
“I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
“Your limbs hurt?”
“Ten tons of lead going a thousand miles an hour whammed into me.”
“Withdrawal,” he concluded.
“I already knew that.”
“Get up, Diane.”
“Make me.”
There was humor and a threat in his voice. “You asked for it.”
What was that supposed to mean? I was about to ask him when—
Something freezing cold grabbed my ankles and dragged me off the bed.
“Hey!” I protested; my head thumped on the carpet. I felt way dizzier.
My stomach lurched, and I was on my feet instantly. I bee-lined for the toilet and hurled last night’s pizza up. Gross.
“Water?” Jethro offered.
I took the water and glugged it down. I said nothing.
“Okay,” Jethro said, “Now get ready for school. I’ll be down stairs.”
I groaned. “I don’t want to go!”
“You sound like an eleven-year-old. Grow up.”
The jerk! I’d show him! “Out,” I ordered.
As soon as he left I stripped down and took an icy cold shower. It seemed like the water was freezing up the dizziness and queasiness. I felt a little better. Once showered, hair combed and teeth brushed, I pulled on a gray T-shirt and jeans. It was bland; I hadn’t worn any thing bland for a while...since, er, I started heroin. How had I never noticed how different heroin had made my behavior?
Like he’d said, Jethro was downstairs, sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Ready for school?” he asked.
Weird—he didn’t sound impatient or anything.
“What, you’re not going to force-feed me breakfast?” I glared suspiciously.
“I don’t want you to throw up again.”
My answer was given grudgingly. “Good answer.” I huffed an exaggerated sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It’s all about your attitude, Diane. Be positive. It’ll do you a world of good.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
“I’d like to knock you out.”
Jethro laughed. I opened the front door.
I froze.
“” I choked out. It looked kind of like a car—I didn’t know cars at all, but this one screamed expensive and valuable. And it was a lovely shade of bright orange.
“An Aston Martin Vantage,” Jethro answered. His voice flooded with pride. “Can I give you a ride to school?”
“Definitely,” I said. I could just imagine what people would look like when they saw me getting out of this car. So many dropped jaws...
“Do you always walk to school?” Jethro asked. He sped thirty over the limit, but the car was graceful and straight.
“Yeah—I couldn’t get a license.”
“What about the bus?”
“And have to get up early? Ugh!”
“And no one else gives you a ride?”
“No,” I realized. Why hadn’t Caleb ever given me a ride to school? Had he really been that afraid of me? “But what does it matter? I always get to school on time.”
Jethro didn’t answer. It was a quiet, brief ride to school.
I missed the days when school passed in a blur. The minutes ticked by as slow as a camel. It was like time had gotten worn out, and no longer wanted to speed away. Each class seemed to last its own eternity.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the lunch bell finally rang. I bought an orange and a bottle of water and sat down at the same table as Jethro. People glanced at us with surprise.
“How’re you holding up?” Jethro asked.
“I fell like hell,” I complained.
“The day’s half over. It doesn’t matter what addiction it is—you get past three days with out the addictive material, you’ll do fine in recovering.”
“Three days!” I groaned. “I don’t want to be miserable until Friday!”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Oh, jump in a lake!” I pouted.
He ignored my negativity. “I have an idea for celebrating the three-day-hump.”
“And what’s that?”
“There’s a place in Juneau that I think you’d like. I can take you there Saturday.”
“What place?”
“I want it to be a surprise.” He smiled, and there was no mockery in his smile. I couldn’t read his smile.
“Fine, I’ll go. But I won’t have fun.”
“You say that, but you’re wrong.”
“Shut up.”
I groaned in defeat. He was shameless, and I couldn’t win against him.
I thought you might want to see the picture of Jethro's car, so here it is:

Aston Martin Vantage--doesn't it look awesome?
I found something else out while looking for a good pic--Aston Martin cars are "James Bond Cars". So Edward Cullen is a James Bond fan--lol!
Oh yeah 1st 2 comment!!
*sigh* over the car.
I want it! I want it! Can i have it? Pls? Good job i like the combacks 4 both of them. can't wait 4 more!
You can't have the Vantage--it's mine! LOL. Yeah, I can totally (NOT) see me affording this car. But seriously, the car is gorgeous. Edward can keep is Vanquish, I'm taking THIS one.
Yeah, I can't wait for more of the story, too. :)

Considering how slow time was passing—and how sick I was constantly feeling, and bad I always felt—I was more than a little surprised Friday afternoon when Jethro was driving me home from school. How could time, moving so slowly, be done with the school week already?
“You know what I think?” Jethro asked.
“You think you’re some smart a*s psychologist who’s going to ‘heal me’,” I told him.
“You’re only half right.” He smiled. Teasing. “But that’s not what I’m thinking right now. I think you’re trying to get revenge.”
“Revenge to who?”
“Your mom.” Jethro’s face was serious now. “When your mom died, you felt she’d hurt you a lot. You wanted to hurt her back, to get revenge. You want to channel your pain from your mom back to your mom. But you can’t, of course. So instead, you hurt others that are close to you. You channel what your mom did to you. That’s why you’re so violent.”
I was shocked—what gave him the right to analyze me like that? But I couldn’t let him see that. “Oh, Doctor Phil, when you explain it like that, I can finally understand my abusive habits! Thank you, Doctor Phil!”
He sighed, exasperated. My response had seemed sarcastic enough that he’d been convinced, but—except for the gratitude part—I actually meant it. In the past few days, I had been grieving for my mom. I didn’t think I’d ever stopped grieving, I just hadn’t...been aware. Jethro had mucked up everything.
And truthfully, I was mad at my mother. And not just her—my dad, too. He kept to himself. I hadn’t actually seen him for weeks. He was always at “work” or in the den, “working”. I was pretty sure it wasn’t grief over the four-year-old loss that kept him in hiding. It was his fear of me. Of my violence. Only once had I unleashed it on him—six weeks after Andre gave me my first packet of heroin. Since then he had hidden.
So I’d been abandoned by both parents. Yes, Dad always left me the means to easily fix myself supper, and the house was fairly clean, but I got no attention.
“When do you want me to pick you up?” Jethro asked when we were at my house.
“I dunno, noon?”
“I’ll be there. Good night, Diane.”
“See ya.”
The house was quiet and lonely. On the dining room table was note from my dad: Canned soup on counter. Big surprise there—this week was soup week. Dad got five meals of the same thing every week, but every week it was different. I really didn’t feel like heating up soup for supper tonight.
The house was quiet and lonely. Too quiet and lonely—I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed my wallet and walked to the nearest grocery store. It was four and a half miles away.
I wasn’t really sure what to get. What did really families make for supper? I tried to remember when I’d actually had a family, but it’d been so long ago. I browsed the unfamiliar aisles with a shopping cart, trying to decide what I should buy. I racked my brain for a meal to make, but nothing came. So far, all I had was chocolate chip mint ice cream.
I was staring nervously at the bottles of seasonings when I saw a familiar label: soy sauce. The name brought with it a handful of choppy memories. The smell, the taste, the look, of stir fry. I took the soy sauce. Now that I remembered stir fry, I was craving it. I got a bag of snow peas, another of water chestnuts, and carrots.
Stir fry had meat—didn’t it? I thought I recalled some kind of meat in stir fry, but I wasn’t sure. I got a package of raw chicken just in case.
The whole thing cost most of the cash in my wallet. I was lucky—I still had ten dollars left. I couldn’t walk home with the load I had now. I called a taxi from a pay phone and spent the last of my money on the ride back to the house.
Now I faced a new dilemma. I knew we had a stir fry bowl thing. We had the supplies, but I didn’t have the knowledge. I would have to find instructions.
I searched every cabinet for a recipe (making quite a mess of pots and pans, I might add) and found nothing. And then I spent a long time putting everything back. I gave up—when had I ever seen Dad using a recipe to make stir fry? He’d made stir fry from memory. I went into the empty den—this place was the most unfamiliar yet. I hadn’t even looked at the door for a while. The computer was obligingly fast, though I remembered it taking an eternity to load. I Google’ed stir fry recipe and used the info I got.
While the chicken was cooking, I read a book—something I hadn’t wanted to do for so long. The words only kind of made sense and I had no idea what the title of the book was.
The stir fry was ready at ten past six, but I didn’t eat any, despite the gurgling of my stomach. I waited.
When the garage finally buzzed to life as the remote opened it, I knew Dad was home. I wondered how surprised he would be.
And as I tried to imagine it—to imagine his face—I realized that I didn’t remember his face. I was horrified. How could I not remember my father’s face?
I heard Dad’s heavy footfalls as he came inside.
“Hi, Dad,” I said. I studied his face, guilty for not remembering it. I recognized the face now—the forest green eyes, the hard mouth, the set jaw, the short beard and mustache, the so-dark-it-looks-black brown hair. I saw his almond-shaped eyes widen in surprise. We really actually hadn’t spoken since...I couldn’t remember his voice.
He spoke now, and the memory of his voice returned to me. “Er, hi, um...Diane.” My name fell uncertainly on his tongue. “Uh,”
“I’m fine.” Those words were strangely true. “How was work?” I tried to remember what his job was.
“Oh, fine, good. Did you, uh...have a good day at school?”
I wondered idly if he remembered what grade I was in. He had that look on his face that made me think he was trying to remember something.
“Yeah, school was good.”
“Um, ah—good.” He seemed at a loss for words.
“I made supper.”
“I cooked up some stir fry.” I blushed a little. That was unfamiliar. When was the last time I’d blushed? “I was thinking that we...could...I dunno, eat supper together?”
“Er...sure... Wait—you made stir fry? I didn’t know you knew how to make stir fry.”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “I looked online for instructions.”
“Well, the house hasn’t burned down.” He seemed to be joking.
So I tried to make a joke, too. “Do you think leaving the stir friar on for a couple hours would start a fire? Because I’ve left it on for the past three hours...” I smiled.
He smiled back awkwardly. “Well, er, let’s eat. I’m starved.”
“Me, too.”
We each scooped out some stir fry onto plates and sat down at the table. The chairs creaked a little from disuse.
We each took a hesitant bite.
“This is...good, Diane.”
“Really?” I hadn’t been completely sure I’d made the stir fry correctly.
“Yeah, you did a good job,” Dad assured me.
It was strange, how happy the words made me. I smiled.
WOW!!! This is really good!!! i love it!!! post more soon please!!!1



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