"There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry."
--Emily Dickinson
The pungent smell of alcohol makes me nauseous. My father's breath reeks of malt scotch and whiskey even in the afternoon. To most my father has a problem, to him he has a solution. I find the bottles in the strangest of places, under the sofa, behind the washing machine. Thankfully, he has his friends to drink with and often passes out somewhere else. Though, occasionally he stumbles into the house at one a.m. and slurs his yells in my direction. Looking to the floor, I always reply with short, soft sentences. He has a temper though, one that even the softest of voices, and smoothest of touches could never tame. I have learned many times to keep my distance. The black eye before my first grade recital taught me to never ask for a hug. The bruise on my arm in fifth grade told me never to talk back to him. The purple bruise on my upper thigh now reminds me that I should always answer him. Even when my bedroom door is shut and I am sleeping.
The only safety I have found is in my books. The collection on my shelf spans decades and genres alike. I found a few of my mother's books of poetry this past summer. My father had asked me to paint bathroom and as I went into the garage to find a new paint roller, I saw them. Out of the corner of my eye, they were covered in a thick layer of dust that I brushed aside. Opening the top copy, I saw her name in her neat cursive. Shutting it quickly, I placed it back and ran inside. That night though, once my father had left for the bar, I went back out and took them up to my room. My father hasn't noticed their disappearance yet and I hope he never does. I could sit up all night and read them. Some of the pages have stars drawn on them, poems I assumed my mother enjoyed the most. Reading these books, I feel a connection to her, a common link between us. Though I will never know, I imagine she loved these books. Their pages are worn and creased, and the spine opens easily. The scent of the pages is strong but smells sweet to my nose, like a floral perfume. I smell the history, the words coming alive and most of all, my mother.
I awoke on my floor, the first volume of poems opened on my lap. Stretching my hands above my head, I rose slowly. As I walked to my washroom I ran into the corner of my bed post with my leg. I winced in pain as I looked down at my bruise, it was a raging red-pink colour now, but still quite painful. I looked at my reflection and studied my face carefully. Each time I saw something about my face that looked like my mother's I smiled. My eyes, my cheekbones, my lips. So much of me came from her. And I knew that there was still so much I would never be able to see.
It was the weekend, so my father would likely be away the entire weekend. I walked past his room, stopping to see if I could hear him. I couldn't. Walking down the stairs I sighed in relief, I could be in peace at last. I stood in the kitchen, contemplating my breakfast. Pouring a cup of coffee I walked back up the stairs to my bedroom. There are no pictures on my walls, no sense of a home. I feel like I am living in a model home, the kind that are shown to potential buyers by a cheery older real estate agent. It is so cold, so distant. After finding comfortable clothing to wear, I left my room and headed downstairs once again. Grabbing my key from the hook by the door, I left my house easily.
Stepping out into the fresh autumn air, I breathed it in deeply. My favourite season brought out my smile. As I walked in the brisk air I looked around at the beauty of the neighbourhood. I loved the colours and the changing of the leaves. It made me believe that maybe I too could shed this life of mine for a new one. The crunch of the leaves beneath my feet made me smile brighter. I suddenly couldn't feel the ground anymore, it was as though I was floating on a layer of air. The season of scarves and thin sweaters was upon us and I wanted to enjoy it as much as I could before the lull of winter came. I scanned the autumn scene nature had displayed in front of me when I noticed someone rush out of a house on my right, slamming the door as they did. I winced at the sound, a sound that had become associated with my intoxicated father after a long night of drinking.
I watched silently as the boy began crossing the street and walked down the sidewalk towards me. As he came closer, I realized it was the younger Jonas, Nick. His eyes looked pained and his face was going a light shade of pink. Either he found the wind to be chilling or he had just been yelling. I assumed the latter. Although he looked so distraught, there was a beauty to him. A broken down, hurt beauty that I could see even through the scowl on his face. His curls fell into his eyes and he brushed them aside angrily. I don't know what it was exactly but I found his presence to be mesmerizing. I continued walking and glanced away occasionally so he wouldn't suspect my staring.
I felt a nudge on my side as he passed by, but surprisingly enough to me, Nick did not just bump into me. Before I knew what was happening, Nick Jonas' eyes rolled back into his head and he fell to the ground. But thankfully for him, my small frame broke his fall.
