“Harold, you up?”
He didn’t question me because he heard noise coming from my room. He asked because the noise coming from outside my room probably woke me. The shouting match. The yelling back and forth. I hate when my parents fight.
I wasn’t worried about staying still. My body was in sleep-mode. I felt paralyzed from the neck down, but from the neck up I wanted to stratch my goatee because I had the covers pulled up to my chin. Lying on my left side, I wanted to rub my face across the pillow, but squinting at the full body mirror in the corner my dad’s head was still midway through the doorway as if he was waiting on me to say, “yeah, I’m up.”
“Is he up, gUerilla?”
That’s probably why they were fighting. Mom must forgot to take off her heels to hide her club-going before she stepped back in the house, and dad’s back must be bothering him again. Her head poked through above his. Yeah, mom’s drunk. She’s slurring her words. She usually pronounce dad’s pet name with O instead of U. And is she THAT wasted to not see where my bed is? Why is her head turned the opposite way in this weird angle?
“Is bruh bruh up?”
I guess the fighting didn’t wake him; his growth spurt did and he wanted to surprise me with the exciting news. My little brother’s head poked through the doorway over mom and dad.
My family knows I think before I speak, but thus far, I have given the impression I’m sound asleep. So, why the hell are they still hanging out in my doorway?
It was starting to scare me!
My dad needs a chiropractor.
My mom is still looking in the wrong direction.
My little brother’s a giant.
After an intense, awkward 3 minutes and 23 seconds (I know this because of my alarm clock) the whites of their eyes and teeth disappeared into the darkness.
I gotta lock my door.
As I was TRYING to get up, my head rolled out of bed.