Sunrise
Danny Oh
2nd Hour
3/06/2012
 
      My dad died when I was nine years old. When I was upset, he would know. When I was angry, his thoughtful words always calmed me down. The best thing about him, though, was us watching the sunrise.  We would sit together in the dusty attic with hot chocolate and a blanket. He would be satisfied with letting me sleep and waking me up to see the sunrise. When I looked through the window, I would see the tinges of pink and orange and yellow in the outer ring as the majestic sun rose up, way above the clouds, until my eyes hurt when I looked at it. We always did this; it was our tradition, until one day when he died of heart attack. I watched the sunrise like before, but he wasn’t there that time. After that day, I’ve never watched the sunrise again. It was too painful for me.
 
      I sat my pencil down on my journal, accidently scraping the journal with the lead. As
I began to erase the black streak, I wondered about how I would ever finish my homework on
time. “Procrastinating,” my mom called it, but it’s not my fault I somehow never noticed about
my school assignments until the last minute. I winced as I remembered the last time I forgot
about my school assignments. I laid the pencil and my journal on my desk as I casually grabbed the pouch of Kool-Aid on my desk, and poured it into my plastic cup of water. The red powder
swirled inside the container, and I waited for it to dissolve before taking a quick sip. As I laid my head over the top of the chair, I thought to myself, “I can afford a few minutes,” and I grasped the nearest book towards me and seized the spine by my fingers, but as I pulled the book towards me, I lost my grip and my book fell towards the rug with a muffled thud.
 
      I snapped to attention, listening for the tell-tale sound of approaching footsteps, but heard none. Just as I began to relax, reaching for the leather book on the ground, I heard the sound of footsteps coming towards my direction. I jumped to the Kool-Aid, grabbing it and hurtling to my
closet with it, staining the rug with dark patches from spilled Kool-Aid in the process. I grabbed
the book and slid it under my bed, but it hit the bed instead. “Crap,” I muttered under my breath.
I picked the book up and threw it under the darkness under the bed. I jumped up onto my bed
and pulled my blanket over me, covering my torso. I waited for the cessation of my panicked
breathing while I tilt my head in a believable angle. Just on cue, my mother approached. All I could do now was hope for the best. I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the rug and waited.
      I heard how she moved around the room, looking for evidence of me being awake. As
I heard her footsteps get farther away, I allowed myself to open my eyes to tiny slits. I saw a
faint blur, obscured by flesh surrounding my eyes, moving towards the closet. My heart beat
quickened a little. Please don’t look in the closet. Please don’t. Please don’t. I knew she
would though, and just then, she reached for the wooden knobs, and pulled the closet doors
open. Incredibly, she didn’t seem to notice anything for a while. I tried to recall where I put the
Kool-Aid. I was pretty sure I placed it pretty deep inside the closet. She began to close the closet
doors, when I heard the sound of rushing water. The closet doors must have caused the cup to fall! I closed my eyes when I began to see a pool of the liquid collect on the rug.  I heard my mother’s voice call out in deep sigh, “Why do you keep on doing this? I thought that we agreed not to do this again?”  I kept on pretending that I was asleep, not responding to her. “Just wake up! We both know that you’re not sleeping.” I sat up cautiously, my legs dangling on the edge of the bed. “So what is it this time?” She said, rubbing her eyes.
 
I mumbled intelligibly, “Oh, just a little book report.” As I said this, I stared at the floor,
trying to avoid her eyes.

      She asked, “What did you say? Why do you keep on doing this? This isn’t just one time!

Whenever you have an assignment, you delayuntil the very last second! I’m getting sick and tired of this!” As she said this, her voice raised until she was practically screaming. I thought about my next answer warily. I considered words that I could use to calm her down, but found barely any. So I picked a nice, safe word. “Sorry.” It’s apparently the wrong answer, because she continued shouting at me with increased vigor. “Sorry? Sorry? How many times have you said that? How can you act like this? Why?” Her voice cracked up, presumably from shouting too much.
 
      I waited, slightly afraid of what was going to happen next. She usually didn’t act so mad;
 
I had almost never heard her shout. She took in a deep breath, and blew it all out. In a defeated
voice she said, “Just do your homework, please.” She exited out of the room, leaving me with a
book report to finish and a stomach that suddenly felt heavy with worry.
 
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I didn’t care about anything anymore. When my friends called me, I never answered. I partially blamed my mom for what’s happening, but mostly my dad, for leaving me here with no one. Dinner usually consisted of. My mom told me that she was going to the hospital for a check-up, to make sure if she actually had Alzheimer’s disease. For a moment I felt a wave of hope, but it got. I didn’t pay attention in class anymore, nor did my mother care. She barely noticed me.
On the day of the check-up, I didn’t follow her, just stared blankly at the TV. “Well, if you need anything. . .” she said, but did not continue her sentence.
      When I was in bed that night, I remembered my dad. I remembered when he was on the brink of death, when he whispered, “I’ll always love you.” I started crying, then sobbing, not caring about the tears staining my bed. My body started to shake and rack up, as I thought of what’s happening. I shouted, “First my dad, now my mom, why does everything have to happen to me?” I moved blindly in my bed not acknowledging anything. Then, I realized that I couldn’t lose her, too that I needed to be there. I pulled on my clothes and I headed down to the hospital.
I went and met my mother in the bed. She smiled faintly when she saw me and said, “You’re finally here; I didn’t think you would have taken so long.” I couldn’t speak; all I could do was stand there, paralyzed. My mother came over and embraced me in a warm hug and said; “I know I don’t say this nearly as much but, I love you.” I didn’t know what to do until I saw the sun come up, in all of its majesty, shining almost as bright as the smile on my face when I say, “I love you, too, mom.”
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