Chapter 1 - Reality

"Morning Dad!" I yell down the stairs. He is always up before mom. Judging by the stream of light across the front of the stairs I can tell that he is up and has a light on.

He usually yells back to me every morning, so I become concerned and curious when I do not get a reply.

I run down the stairs, jumping off the second one from the floor; the painful tingle filling my right foot when it hits the wood floor.

"Dad--? Oh. Hi mom. You're up early." I say kind of awkwardly. I don't have many conversations with my mother. She doesn't talk much at all. My father says it's because of the post-traumatic stress. She does talk sometimes, but when she does it is very minimal and hard to understand.

She nods and turns back out to the living room window. It's hard sometimes being around my mother; knowing what she went through.

What she went through for me.

Even though she doesn't say much, I sometimes don't even know what to say.

I love her.

I'm thankful to have her.

Heck. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her.

I just wish it was possible for us to have some kind of bond; a bond most mothers have with their daughters.

A bond I would like to have if I have a daughter someday.

Maybe my mother and I can't talk.

Maybe it's different for us than other mothers and daughters.

My mother and I; we aren't hopeless.

We can make it work.

Her disability and all.

We can make it work.

I believe so.

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"Morning ladies." My dad says casually coming down the stairs. Considering it's Sunday, he doesn't have to go to work.

"Morning dad." I chuckle. Mom smiles.

My father walks over and pecks mom on the lips, then he turns and kisses me between my eyebrows on my forehead.

Just like every morning.

"What's for breakfast? Toast and eggs good?" He asks.

"Sure!" I exclaim. Mom walks over to the fridge and pulls out the carton of eggs and begins to make those. Dad goes and gets the bread from the kitchen counter and cuts off a few pieces that I don't bother to count for all of us. I decide to go and get butter for the toast.

I open up the fridge no look around. I finally spot the butter on the top shelf, and way near the back. I'm not necessarily short, but I'm not the tallest person in the world either. I get up on my tippy toes and try to grab the butter. My finger just barely grabs the lid, but I just can't get it. I don't want to jump because I know I will loose my balance and fall.

"Here, Natalie." My father puts his hand on my back and I get off my tippy toes. He grabs the butter with ease and hands it to me.

"Thanks." I mumble. He laughs.

Mom is scrambling the eggs in a bowl, the fork clacking against the white bowl now filled with the yellow mixture. When she mentally decides it's done, she pours them in the pan. She turns and grabs the spatula, ready for them so they don't burn.

The toast pops out of the toaster, making a cling sound as it does. Dad uses the little wooden tongs we have to pull the two pieces of brad out so he doesn't burn himself. Then he replaces where those pieces of bread, or now toast were with two new pieces of bread.

Clearly now having a job, I go to the one drawer that holds the silverware and open it up. I take a butterknife out and go over to put butter on the bread.

I struggle to get some butter on the knife because of it being still cold from the fridge. Dad continues to put pieces of hot toast on the plate. I continue to struggle with the butter. Then a little butter chunk flings off of my knife and on to the ground.

"Oops." I laugh and grab a paper towel. I wet it under the kitchen sink then wipe up the butter and throw it out.

By the time the eggs and toast are done we have a medium sized bowl of warm scrambled eggs and six pieces of buttered toast to share for breakfast.

Mom puts the bowl on the table with plates and forks to eat with and dad brings over the plate of buttered toast. He puts two pieces on each plate then sets the original plate in the sink to be washed.

"Breakfast," he pauses. "Is served." Dad chuckles in a funny accent directing his arms toward the table.

We all sit and eat the eggs and toast; conversation springs up a couple times, but mostly the only sound is silverware against the plates and chewing.

Once we are all done eating, mom goes and starts loading the dishes in the dishwasher; my father goes and helps her. I run up the stairs, then down the hallway and into my bedroom; somehow miraculously closing the door without stopping. I continue running then jump up on my bed landing on my side. I lay there laughing for a minute, then I get on my knees and crawl up to my pillow.

I'm my pillowcase, under my pillow is where I keep my notebook.

The notebook I was given by my parents a while back.

It's really thick, so it should last me a while; maybe even a lifetime. I've been writing in it more often, but there's still billions of pages left.

I pull out the black ink pen I keep in the metal coils that hold out the notebook. Then I stretch out on my stomach, propped up on my elbows and begin to write.

Life just seems always the same.

I wish something fun or exciting would happen; something interesting.

Dad says that if you want something interesting to happen all you have to do is open you eyes and mind and loose yourself in the world. You can't look for the interesting things; the interesting things will find you. Some good, some bad, interesting finds its way in, but it also works its way out. Reality keeps interesting out; imagination lets interesting in.

I'm not like my father though.

My mind is only in reality.

It's stuck there. There's no escaping.

Reality is a prison.

I am its prisoner.