by Giselle Sparks

Created on: March 20, 2009

He who judges cast the first stone. Thats what was written in Old English letters on the spine of the beaten up brown leather book I found in a trunk in the attic. Confusion set in my mind as I thumbed through the dusty pages. I understood the words clearly but wasn't sure how to interpret them. The stairs creaked behind me and I slammed the book close as I turned around. My mother's dark figure stood in the doorway. Her expression was horrified by what I was holding. However she composed herself hoping I wouldn't notice her fears, because of the lack of light in the dusty attic.

"Um Mom I.."

"Downstairs..Now. Help your father."

"Ok. Mom what is all this stuff?"

"Now." She says sharply.

Her voice was breaking slightly in a tone I wasn't familiar with hearing from my mother. I got up of my knees trying to conceal the book in my arms. If I could only get to my room with the book. I could flip through it and see what it is.

"The book Dmitri!"

"But..I just thought.."

A searing sting engulfed my cheek. Had my mother really done this? Had she really smacked me so hard I had to wipe some spit from my cheek?

"Don't you ever come up here again. You rooting around in things that do not belong to you!" My mother's hazel eyes staring right into mine.

I'm fourteen years old. My mother doesn't scare me anymore but from her hateful reaction I decided not to test the waters any further. My mother snatched the book from me and held it tightly in her arms. Still rubbing my cheek puzzled, I walked down the steps into the hallway and turned to look behind me. The door was closing and the latch inside clicked over. My mother had locked herself in the attic.

My mother was always a strange parent. She was different in style too. She never wanted to be hip or in the times. She rarley even spoke. When she did her voice was cold and quiet. My mother often wore dark colored and modest dresses. She maintained a modest lifestyle. She didn't have friends. I don't even know how she felt about my father. She was a good mother though but she was distant from us. The smack across my face was definetly bizarre. My mother had never hit me. She has hardly ever scolded me before. I was so confused. What had I done that was so horrible? I had been in the attic before and played with some old legos that were out of my date. I had even read some of my fathers sports magizines. Is this about that book I found? Or maybe the trunk where I found the book? The trunk had been hidden behind boxes of old clothes.I didn't

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