Part 1 of something I wrote
My shoelaces are breaking at the seams and smudged with dirt and grease. Grass stains surround the sole of my shoe along with bit of leaves and dirt.
The house is quiet, only the sound of rain hitting the windows is heard. My brother moved out a year ago with his now-wife. She's lovely, I guess, though there's no connection between us other than my loving brother. It's not that I don't like her, it's that I'm absolutely terrible with people. Of any age.
I place my shoes near the door. 2 large boot-shaped dents replace my grandpa's shoes. He works late doing who knows what, so mysterious, that man.
I wonder what grandma saw in him, I think, then chide myself. Don't be rude. At least he took you in.
My heart stops at the thought of the academy. No, never again.
My laptop's still sagging into my pillow, right where I left it. Although, most of its battery has been drained.
Over a hundred tabs are open, some of them needed, some of them not. I binge watch a few shows, one of my favorite pastimes. When you're the type of person to have 0 messages after nearly a whole year, you end up eating up more than half the shows on your streaming service. That's a fact.
27 minutes and 5 seconds into the second season and third episode of STARLIGHT (which is, by the way, about a kingdom that lives in a faraway galaxy), there's a knock at my door.
I tense up. Uh oh, strangers. Of course after an strenuous day of school, there just has to be an interruption.
To open, or not to open? I ponder over the options. Mother always said to never open the door to strangers, but now that I live with grandpa--poor, dear old grandpa--I'm gonna have to start getting used to opening doors to strangers.
I somehow drag my tired, crusty body to the front door and yank it open.
Two police officers stand there. I wonder how I look to them, a petite, bespeckled girl with tangled hair and green braces. GREEN. How in God's big blue world did I think I could pull that off, I have to idea. No, I am not a nerd. Not really a geek either. Though I most definitely pass as one. Sometimes I wish I were, then at least I'd belong somewhere.
"We are sorry to inform you," the cop with a goatee says, "that Mr. P has passed away."
"We give our deepest condolences," the other cop says.
It takes me a minute to process this.
Mysterious grandpa that never talked, only mumbled riddled phrases I pretended to understand.
Mysterious grandpa that never mentioned grandma and got quiet whenever I brought her up.
Mysterious grandpa who always wore the same shirt that somehow never gotten worn out.
Mysterious grandpa, who is dead.
"Oh," I whisper and close the door.
