Blog: Wayward Hallucinations, part 4

Connor Oswald, JagWire reporter

Wayward Hallucinations

We stood unwillingly rooted to the floor as seconds crawled past. I kept trying to meet my parent’s eyes, hoping to pry out the reasons-the secrets – behind that small, what should have been normal note, but they would always glance away. Afraid that I would see their terror. I’m not sure how long we would have stood like that, all of us unwilling to unravel the tension, until one my mother’s stuffed grocery bags ripped. The sudden sound of the groceries was so violent, my heart skipped a note. My parents were not quick to recover; they just stared down at that torn bag, appalled that the bag would betray them.

I started walking towards them, my eyes trained on the groceries skewed across the floor. My mom and dad, seeing me coming, bent down over the spilled items, trying to shovel the items into their arms. As if they believed that that would somehow stop me. Or maybe they just wanted to delay the questions they knew were already forming on my lips.  

But they weren’t fast enough. I was already there, bending down quickly, not giving them the chance to hold me back. I ran my hands along the metal of a metal can, tracing the small dent on its lip with my fingers. I brought it close to my face, blocking everything else from my sight. But I could still feel my parents staring wide-eyed at me from their crouched positions. I swear, I could hear the breath trapped in their chest fluttering around, like caged birds. They just waited like that, mimicking statues, trying to see if I could make sense of the can, that yellow note and their worry.

But I couldn’t.

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