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Walking home, shins pulsing from fresh bruises and headphones booming away the last remains of my hearing, I hoped to God that she was home. I switched from Asking Alexandria to Architects. Their song Behind the Throne had all the four elements: guitar, bass, drums, and vocal, but importantly, with a leer of longing; of awareness. It was strange what kind of music relaxed people at certain times or excited them.

School was over; all that remained was the uniform attached to my skin. Therefore, I tried to save my vengence for tomorrow, and I would give my mother my forced joy.

My mom promised the night before she would take me to get my driver's permit. My sixteenth birthday was three weeks ago. The first Saturday, she was working. The second, there was an emergency with my grandmother, so I was stuck only with my dad. Not like he didn't have a car or enough gas, just not a healthy state of mind, but that story is for another time.

She said she would leave work in time to be here before I was home. So, imagine my familiar disappointment when the house was empty. The vacant driveway was already a sign. Denial was just comforting.

Her phone only produced the sound of her voice mail. The DMV closed at 4:15. It was already 3:00. While I chewed on last night's left overs, she called me back.

"Yeah, I'm not going to make it home in time. We can try again another time. There's just too much traffic."

"Then I don't want to go to piano today." I took weekly piano lessons, ever since I was eight. I tried to quit twice when I was ten, "I barely practiced and it would just be a waste of time."

"No, I'm going to be home in time for piano. You're going." How convient of her.

"Mom--"

"No. You're going. Be ready by the time I--" I hung up the phone. It was rude and undeserved because she was the better parent. A pang of guilt crossed through my stomach, but disappointment was just stronger.

To me, the driver's permit symbolized the beginning of my independence, of my escape. I wasn't planning on staying in this small corner of PA for the rest of my life. And since my dad had "given up all responsibility of me" (another story) I was so hype to be, well, self dependent. And today hadn't been the greatest. In fact, I wanted to cry by ninth period.

I went to my piano and opened the lid. This thing was one of my true loves, next to my bed and my phone. The strings were crisp and the sound was pure. The keys melted to my touch and the notes sang for me. Flipping to my hardest song, I placed my hands on the keys, ready to strike like teachers with low salaries.

I played until my fingers ached. And then I kept playing. The notes turned from a heroic, bravery inducing kiss to a drunk, stoned girl trying to tongue down her sober boyfriend. Not pretty and yet I continued, until there was a distinct sound of knuckles rapping against wood.

I didn't want to face her. I hadn't finished the song yet. I unlocked the door and opened it, walking away so I didn't have to greet her. She didn't walk in immediantly so she must have been closing the garage.

I took the opportunity to go to my room and pretend to be busy by putting away my clothes. I heard her call my name, but I didn't answer, just like her. She found me anyway.

"Hey, what's going on?" She asked slightly annoyed. I continued to hang clothes. "I was calling your name, why didn't you answer me?" ..................... "Look, I'm sorry I couldn't take you today. There's was just too much traffic, I couldn't make it back in time. We can try again tomorrow?" I gave her a look and then continued. She retreated back to her room.

She wasn't suppose to be like that. She was suppose to see me upset, and say nothing. Just to cross over to me and give a silent hug. A hug filled with warmth and motherly love that felt like a blanket after a blizzard. I would then hug her back and cry into her shoulder because today was too much for these bird-like shoulders to bear. And it would be a good cry. Those cries where you start and you can't stop, feeling every warm drop make paths on your face and then melt into that place where you cheeks meet your mom's sweater. A shoulder shaking, whimper making, silent sobbing kind of cry.

But instead she locked her door. And I went to type on my computer...



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