The gentle rurring of the rain filled my head. It bounced off it's walls and made me want to rip my hair out. But, yet I loved it. It was the only way to drown out the sadness, the fear, the anxiety. I rested my forehead against the window and sighed. My long black hair slipped from behined my ears and curtained my face. I heard the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen. My mother was cooking dinner. I sighed, knowing my cue was coming soon and stood up from my sanctuary. I fluffed the pillows on the window seat and slowly made my way out of my room. I took each step slowly, hesitating with foot in air.
Surely enough, as soon as I reached the final stair, my mother called me to come and set the table. She was in her usual attire; a sleeveless polo, a navy skirt, black sensible shoes, and her grandmother's pearls strung regally around her pale neck. The familiar creak of the silverware drawer greeted me like it has for the last 10 years. I set three place settings on the square table, placed the vase of fake dasies on the silver and china bureau, and adjusted the tablecloth. My father walked in the door said hello, pecked mother on the cheek and patted me on the back. We're not a very affectionate family.