Before the Morning [BEING EDITED]

11 | Sharon

There was something about the wind sifting through the pages of Nora's notebook that calmed her. The sound of them fluttering. The soft taps against her skin as they tried to fly, despite the added pressure of her fingertips. Evidence that she was there—alive, well, and connected to the world around her.

She finished off a line of lyrics and looked up. She was at the railroad tracks, an approximately fifteen-minute and thirty-seven-second walk from her house. It never seemed to age—same metal, same rocks, same railroad crossing sign. The same.

An alarm sounded, and she flinched. How could it have been an hour already?

She wanted to stay longer, but she only had a couple hours until Willow picked her up for a music video session, and she had to clean around the house before she left. Her dad wouldn't be happy if he returned home to his mess. So, she shut off the alarm, packed her notebook and mechanical pencil into her drawstring bag, and started down the road.

She was actually doing good on time. But, as she turned onto Penley Road, her pace slowed. She took more interest in every leaf on every maple. Was that a branch on the ground? A sticker on someone's window—the same sticker she'd noticed a hundred times over?

She tugged her house key out of her pocket as she crossed her yard, ignoring the cement pathway. Her feet sank a little in the grass. Right. It had rained the night before.

Up the steps. She hovered in front of the door—a little ridiculous, because he wasn't even home. She wouldn't even see him today, because she was sleeping over at Willow's.

She unlocked the door and headed straight upstairs. Her songbook returned to its place under her mattress. Her drawstring bag was tossed into her closet. And then it was time to get to work.

It was mid-morning, but her dad's blackout curtains made it seem like the middle of the night. It wasn't safe to cross the room to his window—what if there was broken glass or vomit?—so she settled for flicking on the light. No broken glass, but there was a puddle of puke right next to the bed.

She took a quick tour of the room. No other puke puddles, but there were dribbles of it on his comforter and pillowcase—as well as some sweat stains. She'd seen worse.

Laundry first. It would be the least painful. And, more importantly, her dad would have his bedding for tonight.

She yanked the dirty case off its pillow and haunted the comforter off the bed. Another scan of his bedding, just in case. All good.

The laundry room was a small space next to the downstairs bathroom. The washer and dryer were old-timers, and not the cutest, but they were reliable. They'd cleaned more vomit than she had. She patted the lid once she was done loading the washer. "Thanks, dude."

Clorox wipes, paper towels, and a trash bag in hand, she hurried back upstairs. Could puke cause mold? The question popped into her head every time she cleaned, but she always forgot to look it up. No. She didn't forget—she avoided the question, because if she looked it up and the answer was yes, that was one more thing she had to worry about.

You're selfish.

She knelt next to the puke puddle and unraveled some paper towels. She gagged against the stench and texture as she wiped it away and tossed the soiled paper towel in the trash bag. You'll get used to it. But it didn't matter how many times she told herself the lie—she still gagged.

Two Clorox wipes, just to be safe. And then she was done.

She had barely finished washing her hands when Willow's off-key singing voice blared through the room. "Nooooraaaaaaa, I'm calling yooooou! Pick up the phooone or I'll keep siiingiiiin'! PICK UP THE PHOOOOONE."