I squealed, as my Dad threw me into the air, "catch me, daddy!" We looked practically the same with round faces, pale skin, and brown eyes, though he had eyes more slim than mine.
Finally dropping me, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. The smell of an airport; fast food chains, people's sweat, and rushed footsteps.
The chatter of people on their phones, the calls of plane departures. Everything made me elated during the moment.
We were going to America.
The USA.
The United flipping States of America.
If only I knew how miserable my life would become after that.
***
"WE ARE NOW landing," the aeroplane speakers boomed.
My mother put her hand across my lap to stop me from jumping up. "Not yet, nae jageun byeol." Her nickname for me. It meant "my little stars," and I absolutely despised it.
"I'm a big girl!" I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest and slumped back into my seat.
What I would give for her to call me that once more.
The plane started to descend, and my mom gave me gum. It was the only time she did. It was only because of the air pressure, but it felt like more, as if she was giving me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I happily chewed my gum as we smoothly neared the ground. My older sister, Fatima, looked over to me. My parents adopted her 2 years prior to the time, and we had been inseparable. She was muslim, and kept her religion, even after we adopted her.
She was a bit chubby, with brown round eyes, long lashes, and a whole lot of attitude, though I was still taller than her.
Tugging on her black hijab, she beamed, "Aren't you excited for America?"
I only nodded happily, more focused on chewing my gum and preventing my ears popping.
The plane rolled to a stop on the ground, waiting a bit before it was confirmed a good landing. Mom stood up once the seat belt indicator turned off.
Opening the overhead compartments, my mom handed both carry-ons to us, Fatima's and mine, given back to their proper owners.
My luggage compared to Fatima's looked very childish, but that was to be expected, right? She was twelve, while I was only eight and a half.
Her's was a calm, sleek navy blue while mine had my favourite character from a series I adored, Ponyo.
Finally being allowed to remove our seat belts, Fatima, my dad and I stood up, shuffling to the sides to make it in the wider aisle walkway.
Slowly, we stepped out of the aeroplane, thanked the flight attendants at the door, and finally, stepped into the light.
***
"THIS IS WHERE we're staying?" Fatima said in awe, I suppose I had a similar reaction.
It was way smaller than our old house in Korea, but it just felt.. different. It was, most definitely, only because it was in America.
Fatima and I raced to the door, basically pushing and shoving each other along the way.
The house that my parents had bought—and we still live in—was a two story Greek revival house. It had a moderately sized back and front yard, with pale white fencing surrounding it.
I would actually never meet my neighbours and talk with them. I never bothered to, especially after what had happened.
"I call this room!" I squealed, pushing the door open swiftly.
"Then I call this one!" Fatima says, doing the same thing to the room at the right of mine.
…Now that room is deserted, and Mother uses it for storage.
***
I SCREAMED as Fatima pushed me higher and higher on the swings. My Dad, watching from a bench, laughed. It had been about a month since we'd moved, and everything was going swimmingly.
Dad had a good job, Fatima—along with myself— were in school, while Mom stayed at home and cooked.
"Alright girls, it's time to go home." Dad called, Fatima and I groaned in response. Fatima walked around the swing structure as I dragged my feet across the ground to force me to a halt. Springing off the swing, I ran over to where Fatima and Dad were already standing.
Dad must've sensed our gloomy looks because he then offered, "do you two want ice cream?"
Our faces lit up in sync, nodding our heads fervently. He smiled, then proceeded to walk, Fatima holding his right hand and I, his left.
"Ice cream, here we go!" My Dad cheered, and just like that, we were off.
***
"ARE YOU ENJOYING your ice cream?" Dad questioned. We were still walking back. Fatima nodded, answering for both of us, Dad smiled.
Fatima scoops some of her ice cream into her mouth. She had gotten vanilla with Jimmies' sprinkles in a cup. She liked taking her time with her treats, but when she finishes hers first, she'd always have to rub it in.
I got butterscotch ice cream, the golden yellow and cream colours swirling together on my waffle cone, covered with sugar cookie yellow nonpareils. A bit was dripping onto my fingers, but I couldn't care less as I strided along. I take a big bite, ice cream smearing over my philtrum. Dad and Fatima don't say anything.
"Hold on tight," my dad says, as we prepare to cross the street. My hand tightens around his. I had always been petrified at the thought of crossing the street. I'd say I had *agyrophobia. (*Abnormal\Extreme fear of crossing any crossways)
Mid-crossing, my ice cream cone slipped out of my hand, falling onto the ground. Of course, child me couldn't resist letting go of my Dad's hand to pick it up.
Letting go, I had turned on my heel, walking back to where I dropped it and crouched down, frowning.
"Awh," I said, when I realised it was dirty and wouldn't be any good. I then looked back, but instead of my sister and dad, all I saw was a trail of blood, following with my eyes, it led to the dead bodies of Fatima and Dad.