Amber

Before you read this, I just want to assure I don't personally know anyone named Amber, but don't ask how I thought of the name

Her name is Amber. Well, not really. I say her real name when I talk to her, I say her real name when I talk about her. But in my mind she is Amber
She's told me I'm not good enough. She's told me she knows me 'so well.' She's told me I have problems I need to sort out. This is something my father needs to hear, not me.
I sit on my porch, listening to the yelling. She rushes out of the house and storms down the steps, not daring to look at me. But I'm looking straight at her, whether she knows it or not.
My father runs after her. Interesting how he's never tried to chase after me for anything. By now she's getting in her car. He begs her to stay, but she's had enough. She gets in her car and speeds away.
My father throws a rock at a tree. I just stare at my hands on my lap. He marches toward the house. I stare at him and his fists, begging God not to let them harm me. He looks at me, and both of us look away. He wants me to feel guilty. He wants me to feel sad. He wants me to feel angry. He wants me to be anything but happy. It's not working, not for a minute.
I watch him enter the house. I rest my head in my hands as I hear him throwing things at the wall, screaming profanities and all that shit. You would think I'm used to it; even if I am, that doesn't mean I like it.
No longer do I have to hear the screaming. No longer do I have to hear the fighting. No longer do I feel in the middle like I have to take sides.
Well at least for now.

She's back the next day. Oh, Amber...



Life is like a piano. White keys are happy, black notes are sad; but both are played to make beautiful music.

(I paraphrased that quote a little)