I twirl around my room, and my skirt balloons around my legs. It flows and slides; the fabric gliding seamlessly through the air as I spin with my arms extended like the wings of an airplane. I cannot help the small smile curving on my lips - it is inevitable as I am filled with an emotion that I cannot explain.

In the background, the harsh sound of electric guitars colliding with one another fills the usual silence of my room. The bass of the drum pounds alongside my heart. I pretend to play the riff of the verse on an imaginary guitar, listening intently to the vocals.

"Yeah, the night's not over. You're not trying hard enough, Our lives are changing lanes. You ran me off the road, The wait is over. I'm now taking over, You're no longer laughing. I'm not drowning fast enough."

"Eleanor!"

"Now every time that I look at myself, "I thought I told you this world is not for you." The room is on fire as she's fixing her hair, "you sound so angry, just calm down, you found me.""

"Eleanor!"

"I said please don't slow me down, If I'm going too fast. You're in a strange part of our town."

"God, Eleanor!" The door to my bedroom slams open and my mother is standing in the doorway. Her eyes are lit with the fury of a thousand suns, her regular hazel eyes brightened by the anger evident in their murky depths. She clutches her violet nightgown in one hand, the other pressed firmly against the wood of the door. Her lips press into a taut line, which open delicately in opposition to the toxic in her tone, "It's eleven-thirty," my mother grits her teeth, "There are people in this household trying to sleep, darling."

My dancing falters and I stop, lowering my hands to my sides. I try not to catch my mother's eyes. Sorry, I mouth.

"Sorry is not an excuse," she says and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head falls onto the doorframe where her ginger hair scatters around her face in tangles and waves. Her chest heaves a heavy sigh.

The music seems to realize that it is in trouble as well as the track fades out into the start of the next one. The momentary silence is deafening and I find my hands drifting to cover my ears though there is no sound at all. The crackle of the speakers is blissful white noise, until the next song begins. It is softer and mellower but my mother grimaces at the edgy instrumental and her eyes open to give me another withering look.

"Could you please?" her voice is ragged from lack of sleep, but still holds an inkling of venom. I quickly unfreeze and run to the laptop where The Strokes continue their private concert for myself alone, and turn the volume down considerably.

There is movement in the hallways, and a shadow creeps along the walls. Soon, my father's figure enters sleepily onto the scene. He rubs his swollen eyes and lets out a yawn, asking in an equally hoarse voice, "What's going on?"

Something in my mother's body shifts and clicks; it is an effect only my father has on her. She spins around and points accusingly at her husband, who raises his palms in the beginning of a surrender.

"What's going on?" she repeats incredulously, "What's going on?"

"I believe that's what I just asked." My father replies dryly.

She scoffs. "Well, I wouldn't blame you. With your damn snoring, you wouldn't have been able to hear a bulldozer run over our house."

My father's shoulders sink as if he realizes what the situation has turned into and he heaves a sigh. "Emily, I'm not deaf. Eleanor was playing music. Good music, if I might add. What's the goddamn problem?"

"The goddamn problem," she mimics his tone with a scathing expression, "is that I have to wake up at four tomorrow morning, and I can't get any sleep with her blasting... blasting stupid classic rock in my house!"

"The Strokes are not just classic rock-"

"Do I look like I care, Jim?"

"Honey, it's late, just go back to sleep-"

"Don't 'honey' me."

"Would you just let me finish a fucking sentence?" he yells, and then the room falls silent for a second time. My hands are still at my ears and I try not to whimper.

Stop, I want to scream. But I will not waste my breath on something like that.

They never stop anyway.

"That's it," my mother says shakily after a minute has passed. "I'm sleeping at Carol's tonight. At least there, I can get some peace and quiet."

"Constance-"

"Don't." My mother hugs her arms around her body and her small frame is even tinier compared to my father's looming figure. She rushes back to their bedroom and I hear the closet door being opened.

My father runs a hand through his greying hair. With a small sigh (he sighs more often than I like to think), he walks over to where I stand shaking and gently pulls my hands from where they cover my ears. I instantly cringe away from him and turn my head so that I would not see the hurt expression in his eyes.

"I didn't know you liked The Strokes." he tries to make conversation.

I say nothing.

"You know, I like music too. I actually have copies of their albums in the basement. Your mother made me put them away in storage."

I say nothing.

"We can dig them out tomorrow and you could listen to more of their stuff. Sound like a plan?"

I say nothing.

There is a another resound sigh. He pats my head and murmurs, "Get some sleep, kiddo."

My father attempts to exit my room, but he hesitates by the doorway. The silence is there, ever faithful. But amidst the static, we both strain our ears to listen.

We hear the faint clack of heels on the floor below, and the creak of the front door as it opens. The sound repeats, though signalling the door being closed. We hear the sound of the car being unlocked. The rev of an engine. The screeching of gravel as the car backs up. The sound of the vehicle being put into drive until it roars away.

And then nothing but the silence.

↛

The sunlight peeks through the blinds and tickles my cheeks and plays with my eyelids. I blink awake warily, and force myself to sit up as I rub blearily at my eyes. When they adjust blurrily, they happen to lock on to a new addition to my bedroom decor.

Sitting on the desk right beside my laptop is a stack of vinyls.

I throw my blankets off to the side and scoop one up. It is a Strokes album: Is This It.

Outside, I can hear my father getting ready for work. His feet shuffle against the hardwood below, and I can vaguely hear him humming Reptilia under his breath. My fingers stroke the edges of the vinyl and I close my eyes.

Then, I set it down and get ready for school.