5/15/2018 Voices By Megan PrevostVoices I hear his voice all the time. It hangs over me, a grand piano dangling by a thread. I’m pretty sure he finds joy in watching me make bad decisions. He’s always quick to point them out. I fall victim to his incessant, condescending attitude each time I slip up. You shouldn’t stay out that late. Mom would never approve of this. That’s too much alcohol, Katy. Even I didn’t drink that much. You shouldn’t be at a party on a school night. You do want to get into college, don’t you? An F? Last year you never would have gotten an F. He talks to me now more than he ever used to. I like to pretend I’m over his death. I like to believe that I have moved on. I’ll wake up in the fresh fog of a new day, only to be greeted by the same words, a gentle reminder that I’ll never be over it. You still miss me, don’t you? I can’t get him out of my head. No matter how hard I try, he’s always there. When I wake up, when I go to bed, and every moment in between. The start of my day always comes with a groan and the sound of his voice dragging me out of bed and into the kitchen. Mom is probably already waiting for you. You’re going to be late for school if you don’t get up now. I move through the world in a haze. My mind is static on a television screen, rocks in a blender set to high. I find myself in new places, yet I never remember how I got there. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe my fucked-up mind has taken away the pieces of my life it doesn’t consider important. I sit at the table in different clothes. My hair has not been brushed and instead is pulled back in a ratty ponytail. I don’t care. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says. She hands me a cup of coffee and kisses me on the forehead. I nod, a smile appears on my lips uninvited. You should talk to her, she misses you. You’re not even making an effort. I want to reply. I wonder if he would listen. I’ve thought about arguing the voice away, but maybe that would make me look crazy. I’m not crazy. My eyes shift around the room, they fall on the pictures of him from the war. He wears a camouflage jacket and a smile that I don’t recognize. Mom hums faintly in the kitchen, she smiles too. I can’t figure out her secret. I don’t understand the happiness of others, how they can move on so quickly, act happy so fast. Especially Mom, humming over a lost son isn’t something I can wrap my head around. She’s moved on. You should too. I dig my nails into my palms, leaving half-moons behind. I try to think of a way to rid my body of this anger. The train in my mind derails into a forest of dark thought. I let it. The thoughts stop spiraling when Mom opens her mouth again. “Something came in the mail this morning,” she says. Her voice is a silhouette of what it used to be. I don’t look her in the eyes, I’m afraid of what I might find there. She’s worn. I don’t know how she keeps herself going. I certainly stopped trying, or maybe I never started in the first place. She places her hand on my shoulder and I flinch under her touch. “What is it?” I ask. My voice is soft, it doesn’t match the fire under my skin. “Just look.” Mom slides a box across the table. Camouflage pokes over the top.I stand up. “What is that?” I pull the box close to me and suck in a breath at the sight of his name embroidered on the coat. My fingers run over the stitching. “I think he would have wanted you to have it.” I rip the jacket out of its box and hold it close to my chest. Looks like you don’t need me anymore. It smells of him, a scent I thought I had long forgotten. ![]() Bio: Megan Prevost is a Creative Writing student in Florida. Her work has appeared in The Beacon and Scarlet Leaf Review. In her free time, she likes to cry over stray cats and take pictures of lighthouses. You can follow her on twitter @megpre_23 Comments are closed.
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
December 2024
Categories |