Ashes

The lights, the presents, the family…Christmas is the happiest time of the year. It’s the only time everyone puts on a
happy face as if the veil of desperation has been temporarily lifted. It’s also the only time I can handle being around all of
them at once, although it’s more than that, I don’t handle it; actually, I truly enjoy it.

My father, Dr. Joseph Fox PhD, the over-analyzing psychiatrist. He’s not a complicated man, he’s just like every other
man in the world: very stereotypical. He’s in his mid-fifties causing him to dive head first into a mid-life crisis.
Unfortunately for him, my mother refused his request for the sports car, don’t worry too much though, he made due with
a bright red Kawasaki. If one would be so presumptuous to call it a motorcycle, they would be wrong. The “bike” is more
like an obnoxious purse complete with a pair of wheels. To be completely honest I’m not sure what Dr. Joe does in his
spare time, what I do know is that his cell phone rings quite often, followed soon after by him dashing out the door and
hopping on his trusty steed. I assume the reason he takes off with such haste has to do with a blonde somewhere. I
always imagine her spread out on a red velvet couch, wearing six-inch stilettos and something from Victoria’s Secret.

My mother, Cynthia Fox, housewife and over-bearing control freak. She either doesn’t know what’s going on with Dr.
Joe or couldn’t care less. Either way the microscopic spec of dirt on the floor is more important, more world-ending than
anything my father could do to her. Cindy is your average up-tight, obsessive compulsive, lunatic. Hence the reason I give
her cleaning based nicknames (I.e. The Concierge of Clorox). Aside from keeping the house as perfect as humanly
possible, I’m not sure she has much of a life.

Kylie Fox, my fifteen-year old sister. She’s a very outgoing, sickeningly happy little thing. In comparison she makes me
look like a brooding emo. Her perkiness is so over the top that sometimes I get the impression she is over-compensating,
perhaps Dr. Joe didn’t give her enough attention, or the Dirt Guru was too busy dusting the coffee table to listen to her. I’
m almost positive that she’ll grow up to be a stripper. No one on this planet (or any other for that matter) should have as
much pink as she owns, it’s not healthy.

I guess that brings us to me. There really isn’t that much to tell. My name is Sidney Fox, like the rest of my family I’m
average. Maybe a little more cynical than most, perhaps a bit more sarcastic, but other than that…average. I look like
everyone else, dress like everyone else and sure, I have hopes and dreams like everyone else. Currently I’m a senior in
high school, just like millions of seventeen-year olds around the world. I have loves and hates, fears and joys…you
guessed it, just like everyone else. There have been times in my short life that I’ve tried to stand above the crowd, and
become my own person; the problem with such a goal is that there will always be multiple people trying to be that same
individual. Years ago I grasped the realization that we are all the same, some of us just have more quirks than others.

Now, back to Christmas. It’s a beautiful time in the Fox household, Dr. Joe leaves his cell phone plugged into the wall for
at least three solid days, without looking back. The Grime Inspector General focuses her obsessiveness in other directions:
baking holiday cookies, hanging wreaths, wrapping gifts, making hot coco, and creating an all around holy jolly
experience. The Princess of Pink hangs up her low-cut tank tops and high-rise skirts, in exchange for traditional skin-
covering Christmas wear. I stash my sarcasm into the broom closet and completely enjoy the warmth. For one week out
of the year we are a family, a happy one.

Sadly, the holiday cheer ended a week ago, we rang in the new year and everyone went their separate ways as if the
second that ball dropped it was a signal that the charade could end. Tomorrow I have the pleasure of returning to the
relentless procession of classes, ringing bells, stale hallways, and cranky teachers. And, I get the privilege of repeating that
activity five days a week, for five more months, that sounds like as much fun as rolling on a pile of tacks.

I sat on the couch and watched as my mother, neatly but rapidly snatched all the glittery balls off the tree and proceeded
to stuff them into a box.

She glared at me in disgust, “You could help you know Sidney?”

There was no doubt about it now, the cheerful family bliss had definitely come to an end. “Nah, that’s alright. It’s much
more fun to watch.” I smirked.

She continued her task as if I had never said a word.

The clanking of high heels pranced down the wooden stairs, I looked back to find Kylie wearing as little as possible in the
dead of winter.

My mother gave her the same glare she had given me moments ago. “You have school tomorrow, besides that outfit is
ridiculous.” she scrutinized her from head to toe, “You are not going out dressed like that young lady.”

A car honked impatiently outside. Kylie swiveled in place and dashed for the front door, slamming it loudly behind her.
“Sure would be a shame if she got frost bitten, and had to have a few limbs amputated.” I murmured.
“Don’t talk about your sister that way!” My mother snapped while trying to conceal how pissed off she truly was.
“Awe come on, you know you’re hoping for it too.” I smiled.
“Never!” she went back to packing up the decorations “Don’t you have some reading you need to get done?”
“Not that I know of.” I remained planted on the couch, mostly to irritate her, but also because I had nothing better to do.

I had to stop myself from removing all the decorations from their assigned boxes and putting them back up. Pretending it
was Christmas forever wasn’t going to be enough to bring this dysfunctional family together. I needed to realize that there
was no hope for any of us. I needed to find my own way, and stop trying to pretend that everything would get better. In
five months I would be…well I wasn’t sure where I would be, but hopefully it wouldn’t be here. On the downside I did
have another agonizing five months to live under this roof.

Inspiration hit me like a baseball bat to the head. I jumped up, grabbed my keys and climbed into my late nineteenth-
century root beer colored Ford Explorer, which I aptly named Mogg (Master of Gas Guzzling).

Inside the Home Depot, I examined the thirty different color swatches that I held in my hands. When I was five The
Sergeant of Spick and Span told me that I needed a change. She grazed her hand along the wall of my bedroom, and
reminisced about being pregnant with me and painting those very walls. She told me that I was a big girl and had
outgrown the zoo of animals she had so lovingly painted. I responded with, “Mommy, I’ll never be too old for them. I love
them and I love you.” Or something cheesy like that. As the years passed, I realized just how naive I had once been. The
elephant that lead the carnival began to taunt me with its eyes, the prancing kitty cat showed up in my nightmares. So I did
the only logical thing, I plastered posters floor to ceiling. Trust me, it took a lot of posters to cover all those judging
animals. I have life-sized pictures of bands I’ve never heard of, movies that were only released in Switzerland, anything
that was bright enough to distract me from what lingered underneath.

I narrowed my choices down to four different shades of gray: Manor House, Pier, Otter, and Warm Stone. The trim was
already decided, it was a light cream color called Dromedary Carmel. I discarded the Otter gray, deciding that the last
thing my room needed was more animals. I cringed as I thought about removing the posters and revealing the demented
creatures within. I’m sure my mother had good intentions seventeen years ago, but as she changed, her animals seemed to
morph as well. Now was time for that change she talked about so long ago. I neatly placed the three loser grays back in
their assigned slots and walked over to the counter clutching the winning swatches.

“Um a gallon of Manor House,” I told the guy behind the counter, “and a gallon of Dromedary Carmel.” I pointed to the
colors and slid them across the counter. When he didn’t take the samples I looked up to find him staring at me.
“Great names they give these, huh?” He smiled.
“Sure,” I looked at my wrist, and checked my imaginary watch.
“You in a hurry?”
“Yeah, my grandmother is on her death bed, her final request was for me to paint her room.” I had more than a hint of
irritation in my voice.
He must have gotten the point because he began mixing the paint and plopped it on the counter in no time.
“Do you have any plans when you’re finished painting?” He asked, flashing a smile.
“Well I suppose my plans would be, watching my grandmother die a slow painful death.” I snatched the buckets and
walked away before I could hear anymore of his pathetic attempt at chit-chat.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom and wondered if the underlying animals would be as horrifying as I remembered
them being. They were probably pretty upset with me for covering them up for so many years, although on the bright
side, maybe they suffocated…I hesitantly tore the tape away from the corner of a vibrant Beatles poster, slowly, I pulled
at the edge. A vague smile resided under the paper. The more I removed, the clearer the picture became. I inched it away
from the wall revealing the full face of a lion, he didn’t look nearly as intimidating as I remembered. This was truly a sad
moment in my life; here I was seventeen years into life and afraid of a painted circus. Like a woman crazed I began
ripping the posters down three and four at a time, until they were all on the floor ripped to shreds.

The paint roller couldn’t move fast enough, there was Manor House gray flying all over the place. Three hours and two
coats later the circus was nowhere to be found, just solid gray. It was tranquil, and I was glad to be rid of that ridiculous
clutter that filled my walls just a few hours ago. I laid on my bed to admire my work, and without preparation, my eyes
closed.

“Sidney! It’s seven o’clock, get up!” my mother screeched from the other side of my door.
I groaned and pulled my pillow over my head in an effort to block her out.
My door creaked open and Captain Clean burst in with a resounding gasp of what sounded like horror, “What have you
done!”
I rolled away from her and tried to pull the pillow closer to my face.
“Look at this mess!” I heard a chorus of crinkles, “I can’t believe you would be this filthy. I didn’t raise you this way!”
After a few minutes of silence I peeked out from behind my eyelid to make sure she wasn’t standing over me. There was
no sign of life, but my floor looked like a ticker tape parade had just rolled through. I rotated out of bed and began wearily
picking up the trash.

“I’ll handle it, go get ready for school or you’re going to be late.” she said as she burst back into the room, “I can’t believe
you would be so irresponsible.”

Not quite understanding what level of irresponsibility this event fit into, I followed orders and got ready for school. Maybe
it fit into the same category as the time I picked her, what I thought was a very lovely flower and she discarded it directly
in the trash, while reprimanding my irresponsibility. How was I suppose to know that Dandelion’s, in their puff-ball form,
create dozens of weeds.

Stefanie@StefanieEllis.net

Chapter One: Circus of Insanity