A Fresh Start

    I'm lying on the faded and frayed white blanket I've had for as long as I can remember, adorned with patterns of tiny blue butterflies and tiny blue flowers. Underneath is my sleeping bag, now slightly too small since my last growth spurt, but I don't mind. I can sleep almost anywhere if I'm tired enough. Almost. My own house is about the only exception.

     My sleeping bag rests on a creaky floor of old wooden planks, just two feet above the ground. Kind of pathetic for a treehouse, right? But I like it here. It's kind of my safe space, I guess. Borris the bumble bee buzzes around the plywood ceiling, the slight draft blowing him against the wooden eaves despite his fruitless efforts before he finally finds his "nest" in one of the many holes in these decaying wooden walls. Sometimes it gets so dark in here at night, I imagine I'm living in one of those holes, trapped in a small and claustrophobic crawl space. Honestly, the idea doesn't feel so far-fetched.

     I originally named Borris a few years ago. There's no way he's the same bee, but the bees that have come and gone out of this "treehouse" for years are all the same, in a way. Kind of like how we are. People come and go out of each other's lives all the time, but no one really notices or gives a shit. Over the years I've realized it's kind of hard to find a different perspective when you live within a society of sociopaths.

     But other people's apathy is not something I want to dwell on right now. I shut the book I'm reading with the satisfactory sound of whooshing pages and clapping paper, wafting that distinct yet comforting book-smell into my face. I close my eyes and thrust the book away from me into the only clean corner of my treehouse in frustration. This kind of thing happens to me a lot when I read. It's always kind of nice to escape to another world when your own is simply fucked up. But sometimes that's hard to do when you're thinking about a million things at once, trying to connect the dots back to where it all went wrong, so after you keep having to reread the same page over and over again, you eventually just give in to whatever dark spiral your mind wants to take you down this time.

     I just want to sleep. Don't get me wrong, I know as well as anyone that closing your eyes for a few doesn't make your problems disappear. But like I said, it's nice to escape every once in a while. Right now, the late afternoon sun spills through the spaces in the walls, its lazy rays reflecting floating particles of dust through the slits between slightly crooked wooden planks. The air would be stifling in here if it weren't for the breeze that filters through these spaces, stirring and swirling the dust that makes me sneeze on occasion. Still, my sweaty hair clings to my white tank top, just like how my sweaty tank top sticks to my skin. 

     I've been sitting up for a while now, so I decide to lie down again, the back of my head sinking into the one and only pillow I have in here, which is surprisingly cool despite the warm atmosphere. I tilt my head back even further and peer outside through the treehouses' one and only tiny window, which is directly behind my head. I'm looking out at an upside-down world. And I wonder, as I have before, that if maybe people stopped more often to look at the upside-down version of our planet, maybe we could start to turn the world, and our lives, rightside-up again. Maybe.

     A low, distant rumble echoes my thoughts, the sound flowing smoothly through my mind like running water. Cars rush past on the busy road behind the dilapidated fence that surrounds my yard, but I tune out the sound as I watch the storm approach from my upside-down point of view through the pane of glass. This way, the deep blue clouds appear to be a distant ocean, a sea of ever-growing and ever-changing cumulonimbus shaping into larger and larger waves. The wind makes a faint whistling sound as it whooshes through cracks in the wood. I can tell it's growing stronger now. The ends of my butterfly blanket, along with my hair, begin to flutter in the breeze. And underneath the weakening wooden planks that support my weight, dead branches crackle and rasp like my mother's voice, after years of constant smoking have finally taken a toll on her health.

     There are no trees in our tiny, overgrown yard. But, at one point, there had been a few large bushes, and I had always wanted a treehouse when I was little. So, Mom and Dad helped me build one over a bush in the middle of our yard. It was their gift to me for my sixth birthday, and it didn't take long to make, either. We started with wooden supports placed around the overgrown hedge, because it was obvious there was no way its thin branches would support the rest of the structure all on their own. The rest we put together pretty quickly, since Dad is a carpenter. He was the one who added the tiny ladder and the tiny door and the one and only tiny window that I can still open and close. Mom and I painted the outside together for fun, a random pastel color for each wooden plank, so, in the end, the treehouse was a rainbow of pale pinks and baby blues and spring greens and soft yellows. I remember thinking it was absolutely perfect. It looked just like a tiny beach house, the kind with wooden posts underneath to support the house in the sand and to keep waves from reaching the bottom. I had asked my parents, then, if we could go to the beach together, and they had replied with, "Someday", though that "Someday" never came. We just never got the chance.

     Dad even considered making and selling custom-made treehouses for a while. He didn't, though; he's never had enough time to spare. Carpentry and woodworking was just something he was and still is great at, and his job pays well. I find it kind of funny now, in a not-actually-funny sort of way, that he can fix other people's homes so well, but couldn't even begin to fix his own. I guess maybe he just couldn't see it was broken. Or maybe he knew and didn't want or know how to fix it. Either way, he left, and not in a pretty way, leaving Mom to crumble just like our ancient chimney, and leaving me to float around our burning house like trapped smoke.

     I'm not trapped anymore, though. At least, not in there. Smoke always finds some way to escape, and that's way easier to do when there's holes in your home. Literally.

     Rolling thunder sounds again, but more intense this time, like the sound of colliding boulders rather than flowing water. Still, there's something comforting yet thrilling to the noise as the formidable clouds loom closer and closer, slowly smothering the sun. The branches of the bush beneath me scrape together, louder and louder - the rasping cries of a dying plant being strangled by twisting vines of poison ivy.

     Borris the bee returns to his nest near the ceiling. I don't mind his presence and I don't think he minds mine. At least, he doesn't try to sting me, anyway. But there's a certain appeal to the type of friendship. Not that I'm friends with a bumble bee, per say, but I like having a mutual respect that doesn't come with drama. I've certainly had enough of that these past few years.

     Pinkish lightning catches my eye and branches across the sky like the huge old oaks in my neighbor's yard. A moment passes as I anticipate thunder's sharp crack that ends in a low growl. The ground beneath me shakes from the sound. The storm must be closer than what I thought, and I peek outside the rattling treehouse door to get a better look when the sound of shattering glass startles me, and I turn to the direction from where I heard the noise. I'm not exactly sure what broke in my house this time, but the strong wind carries snippets of shouting in my direction. I don't want to go inside. I should probably make sure Mom is ok, though. Her boyfriend can have a temper sometimes. How she still puts up with him after all these years, I have absolutely no idea.

     I climb out of the treehouse and jump down to the ground. A strong burst of wind blows the plywood door away from me and slams it against chipping pastel paint and wooden walls. Its hinges creak loudly. For a second I wonder if it's going to break, but it doesn't as I close the door and slide its rusting latch back into place. I sneak across my yard with tall, dry blades of grass brushing against my knees and wrapping around my legs. Thunder crashes nearby as I crouch next to the house, beneath the air conditioning vent, where the shouts intensify. Overwhelming memories come flooding back to me then, about eavesdropping on my parents just like this when I was little. I would sit underneath the AC unit, able to hear their every word through those vents as clear as day.

     And as I start to listen, I'm shocked. I can't help but think that this seems more movie-like than real, like the typical intense conflict scene that, for some reason, always has to feature a thunderstorm in the background. Fat raindrops begin to fall on my head and back as the raging wind blows the rest of the wave against me and the house.

     A few moments later, I jump when I hear the door slam over the storm, and peer around the side of my house just in time to see a scowling, dark figure jump into his car and tear out of the driveway. And when Mom comes out into the pouring rain, she turns around and stares at me like she's seeing her daughter for the first time. And then she smiles. Water flows down her face, mostly from the rain but I can tell she's crying, too, just like I am. She steps closer and hugs me as thunder booms around us.

     Somehow, I know he's gone for good this time. And when the storm finally clears, maybe we can have the fresh start we've always wanted.