Rachael Gregson - Toy Trains

~Seth~

Grace Thomas was the first person who taught me the best way to live after all I had known was the best way to die. I had screamed for help so long and finally, finally caught an ear. Grace waited around for me, gave me a chance. It was like this: someone was walking in the woods at twilight, only to come to a dead halt when they saw golden orbs floating in the dark spaces between tree branches. Thinking they were airborne embers from a forest fire, that person fled, not staying to give a double take and realize those golden orbs were just fire flies. Grace was unlike that person; she had stayed and realized that what everyone thought I was, dangerous, airborne embers from a forest fire, was untrue. She had stayed and saw that I was just fire flies, peaceful and gentle and craving for a chance.

Chapter One

~S eth~

The song Jumper by Third Eye Blind blares into my ears from my ear buds that crisscross and dangle along my neck, choking me like life. I have the volume as high as the electronic device will let me. Usually, I hate loud noises, like funeral organs, my fathers yelling, and his whiskey bottles shattering, but today my depression is extra persistent and it is the only way to drown out my own thinking. I have used my front porch as a getaway, but even through the windows and the shut door, the morbidity I have tried to run from reaches me. It is like sadness has seeped into the very walls and furniture of my house, and I would have to move homes to get relief.

The sky is just now healing nicely from a heavy downpour, and I am envious at how it can recover and rejuvenate from pitch black to honeyed light in a matter of seconds. The sun grins as it takes a win and prepares to break the tie with a tangerine sunset in a couple of hours. I had been thinking, then while listening to Iris by Goo Goo Dolls, that it was my first and only victory that I could sob better than a rainstorm. It all made sense why; the rainstorm wasnt crying over a deceased mother, an alcoholic dad, and a nagging girlfriend named Delilah.

I had never worked up the spine to plead help from the school counselor because of these three issues; pleading help from a drunkard dad and my moms grave stone at the church was too little for me. I feel like this: I feel like Im screaming, yet no one seems to care or notice. I feel like Im being attacked by a rabid wolf and instead of getting help or defending me, my dog watches, wagging his tail. In fact, I feel like not only my dog watches, but he also after a while joins in and starts ripping me apart as well.

A wine -scented hand comes out of nowhere, the land where sound exists and booming music doesnt, and roughly plucks a bud out of my ear like its a stubborn fruit lodged on a tree branch. I, like an obedient dog, yank my other out before he does and turn my head so that nose will not be the victim of his slap. The slap never comes nor does the replacement of my dislodged left ear bud, so I know my father wants something besides my pain.

I look up at the same time hes decided he has waited enough. Seth! My father wavers as he stands in front of my chair, feeling an earthquake only noticeable to him. Hes drunk; I can tell as he raises a hand at me, the fingers quivering and shaking and glimmering with the wetness from a bottle. His voice is strong, hard, and blood red just like his eyes. Is this why you didnt respond when I called to you? I asked you for another beer.

He is going to get mean drinking another one, but he is also going to get mean if I refuse. I follow him back into the living room, cupping my earbuds into my pocket, where he plops back into his chair that smells more like wine than his hands or breath. It didnt start smelling that way until Mom died. It was where Mom rocked me as a baby and now its just a heap of cushions where Dad rocks his alcohol bottles.

Seth, He begins again calling me, and then makes it clear when I only raise my eyebrows in response. I told you to get me another before I give you a reason to listen to those sad songs.

He loosens an empty bottle from earlier and lets it fall with a clatter on the carpet; not even a splash comes from the opening. Hes drained it completely. I obey his request anyway, entering the kitchen and making my way into the fridge, my body halfway buried into the opening to pluck the most frigid beer. I find one at the back, fingers closing around the neck of the bottle, and then, using the hanging door as a cover, drain some of the fizz into my mouth. It shocks me, turns me dizzy and excited at the same.

I feel my pulse in my stomach, the humming of it kicking like a rabbits leg. The vile liquid swirls down my throat, burning me alive, burning my skin and my gums and my teeth altogether. My stomach shudders as it stops running down my body and hits rock bottom. I like it. I screw the lid back on with extra tightness, palms shaky, and return back to the family room where my drunk father is waiting.

So, I say, shifting a few mounds of muddied, blackened newspapers out of the way so that I can sit on the couch, in front of my drinking dad. How are you doing today, Seth?

Dad gives me a look as if how Im doing is clearly evident; to him, if Im not spurting out blood or missing an arm, I am fine. Even though I am not spurting out blood or missing an arm, I am still not fine. One does not need to be free of physical pain to be fine. To me, mental brokenness is equivalent to spurting blood and a missing arm. He sighs in response to my wrinkled, misshaped look. Well, how are you?

I need help, Dad, I try, hoping to some look of familiarity and sympathy resurface in my fathers eyes as I go on explaining. Please sign my note to go talk to the school counselor.

My dads face reddens like fresh blood and in a sudden rush of frustration, he slams his half empty bottle onto the lamp stands surface. It makes a loud crack, like the snapping of bone. I am not paying half my wallet for some fool to tell you whats wrong with your screwy self when most of your friends could do it for free. Tell me then, tell me, before its publishable to the outside world.

Well. I look down, my stomach itching with nervousness, the skin on my fists rasping together like a snakes rattle as I rub my two hands together. I am suddenly a scared child asking a teacher a question; I am suddenly a girl that has just seen a spider. Im not ready, but I begin. Sometimes my brain hurts me. Sometimes I dont get how I scream Im dying from the inside until Im blue in the face and people bypass you like they cant help you. Really theyre too afraid to touch you. I dont get how people dont react to crying and grieving; its like sadness is slowly fading this world. I dont how you trip and people never pick you up or stoop down to help. Once in a decade, you get a helping hand that will caress the pain away. Then it disappears, and becomes numb to this world and fades away instead of helping you. I dont get how you can run away and look back and see no one fleeing to drag you back where you belong. No one cares that youll leaving, or when youll be back. If you die, people leave you dead. When you live, you might as well be invisible unless youre rich or commit dirty, popular acts. I want someone to guide me with careful finger tips, to help me leap over those small hills and help me soar over those giant mountains. My heart beats with no feeling except just...blood. Theres no motivating push against your organs. I want...joy. I want it to stay along with the people I trust. They shouldnt melt away in the shadows like snow in hot weather. And that is me. Or whats left.