Saturday. I’m 22. It’s seven in the morning. Layers of Canada’s harsh winter snow covers roofs and trees and grass and paved outdoor floors. The whiteness pours into my curtained bedroom. My comforter feels extra warm and soft.
A low voice thunders.
A shrill voice bounces back.
I bury my face into a pillow.
Thunderous footfalls. Dade stomps around when he’s angry.
Cabinets bang open and close.
They slam everything when they fight. But not plates. Plates cost too much to throw.
Dade whistles.
Mame blasts “Dancing Queen” from the DVD player.
I roll on my side, reach for the laptop next to my bed, and hit the Windows Media Player icon. My room fills with the younger, angrier Eminem’s retching. Puke splashes sound from my laptop speakers.
Eminem mumbles, “There I go... thinkin’ ’bout you again.”
I pull the comforter over my head and bury my face in my overalls-wearing stuffed rabbit, Benny Bunny.