My dad was late again. I'm getting pretty worried about these late-night outings. And I mean pretty worried. Mum and Dad aren't actually divorced, but they don't exactly speak to each other at the moment. If they ever did. They may have just kept silent and awkward in their studio for all I know.
But I don't think it's anything like that, in any case. Dad looks too worried, too tired. He reminds me of myself sometimes. Just the way he seems to looks at things reminds me of myself. Me: permanently looking for something and never finding it. Me: never finding out exactly what I'm looking for. Me: searching for my soul and the object my soul is working towards, the object my soul wants, trying to figure out what it is that I actually want.
So if he's searching for something, and is never finding it, what is he searching for? I wish he could confide in me. I probably can't help, but I am fifteen now. And is that or isn't it old enough to be told the details. It's obvious he hasn't confided in Mum. And he certainly hasn't confided in me. Nor has she shown any signs of wishing to do so. Once or twice he's come up to me and opened his mouth, but then he's turned away and swiped something onto the floor, then had a swearing match with it. That's not encouraging for me. I think he wants to ask me something, but he can't bring himself to do it. And it makes him angry. And he takes his anger out in having a tantrum, and saying as many bad words as he can think up.
Today I did the washing up. For the first time this week. It's a good thing we have a lot of dishes. Not that we need many. We mostly just eat out of tins with maybe a fork or a spoon. It's mum who uses the dishes. She can't abide by tins. Not that she's been eating much this past while. A few pieces of pineapple, and she leave the rest outside her door. She's going mad. I know it, Dad knows it. And it makes us both angry, and sad, and angry again at the blue-cloaked murderer, because it is he, in taking the life of my sister, who has done this to our family.
Unless we have the blame for refusing to return to happiness. It's impossible, though. Impossible. We can never be happy again.