The hourglass has flipped again and I can't help but wonder if my insomnia was contagious after all, as my twelve year old brother tries to lull himself into some state of normality with the television.
It is 3 A.M.
We should be sleeping and while he's being brainwashed, I'm sitting here, reading, writing, and wishing pointlessly for a normal life.
The little boy who IS sleeping is so arrogant and spoiled you can hardly call him normal, especially as he's a bastard, by the Webster's term.
And our parents??
Workaholic military father, overprotective, controlling and somewhat paranoid (is that where I get if from?)
His wife - clean freak, soft, addicted to soap operas and mountain dew and who would kill to have a baby daughter of her own.
This household is not safe in any way.
We all have our baggage, our demons lurking in the corners of our well to do house (debt to our eyebrows.) We lock ourselves in our separate cells and hope that nobody realizes that We Are Not Normal.
No wonder this house is a skeleton.
With all the crazies living in it, the home decided to do the one thing none of us is strong enough to do – and run. And now this house is just a house.
It is but a shell, a prison.
A place to hide in.
And the saddest part of all is that were all hiding from ourselves…