The story so far:
It was as if I hadn't left. My dad, in his lounge chair which sat directly in front of that old Sony we'd had for years, his arms raised in the same familiar pose that meant he didn't understand why his mom was bringing the subject up again. My mom standing just to his left, as not to block his view, the index finger of her atrophied right hand pointing at the coffee table, although her dad knew she was actually pointing at him. "Your daughter is gonna end up just like that Paul if you don't get up off your fat *** and teach her a lesson."
I waved as I went by, knowing they wouldn't notice. My room was the last one on the right. It was next to thiers so I always had to be very quiet. The wall between the two rooms was so thin it wouldn't allow for secrets. And the idea of going to the bathroom in the middle of the night had always been a nightmare.
I had managed a few secrets, though. The teen magazine under my mattress, a stash of cigarettes in the mattress and a nice chunk of change under the floorboards of the shed out back. Sad. That money was going to be our way out. Me and Paul. Hittin' the road to anywhere but here. Just a few more days and we'd been gone. Too bad that last job didn't work out and here I sit, alone. Really alone, now that Paul is gone. I crumpled myself up on my bed and cried.
"Get your butt out here, Lynette." It was my dad, not from outside my locked door but from the worn chair he called home. "Your mother wants to talk to you."
She hadn't moved an inch. A slight turn was all it required to face the hall I was treading. That familiar stance was somewhat comforting: hands on hips, left foot forward just a tidge, brow raised. As I moved toward the inevitable, the strangest thought came to mind. Only strange because of its timing. I really do love you, Mom. It was then I knew what I was going to do.