For what it's worth -- another page or two of my WIP

Here's the first part of chapter 2 of my wip. Again, if you wish, go ahead and comment.

Fall of Knight, Chapter 2 (Look in the past blogs for chapter 1).

     "I don't think so," Mom says – amazingly calm.
     "Why not? You can't–"
     "Dee. Let me finish." Mom is still calm. I don't know if that's good or bad. "We have to unpack and arrange the cabin. Tonight, we can have a bonfire and make s'mores. "
     "Mom, I – "
     "I think that's great, "I say and try to give Dee a withering look that usually doesn't work, but this time Dee quiets.
     We spend hours jamming things in every cabinet and drawer and every nook and cranny we can find until I feel like I'm in the middle of a reality TV show about those OCD people who can't throw away anything.  In a way I can relate.
     For weeks and months and yes, even a year or  two at a time, I save every little scrap of paper I write or draw on. Then, when I get into one of my down phases, I read something I've written and realize how much it sucks and I burn it all.  I never just throw it away; there's no satisfaction in that. Fire is kind of a release. I don't ever keep much of my stuff for long. Apparently, the characters who live their lives in my head have lives that suck too.
     "I think I've had enough," Mom says suddenly and stands.  "I can't take anymore, but…" She pauses as a comedian does right before he gives the punch line, "I can make s'mores." She chuckles like a little girl, something she doesn't do very often.
     We use some of the old newspapers, and gather some twigs and branches and soon have a good fire going.  It's dark out, so, of course mom says it's too late to swim, but in the moonlight and starlight we can make out the river – and the sound.  It's like white noise to me, calming my nerves. Maybe this place isn't so bad.
     Dee is absolutely bubbly tonight. Mom cannot understand how she can be so happy and so friendly one minute and be an absolute witch with a b the next. Mom never could grasp the concept of mania. In my own attempts to understand why I'm so nuts I've done a lot of research on bipolar. I think Dee has cyclothymia, which is a cousin to the crap I have. It's characterized by rapid cycling. Anyway, we both have been prescribed psychotropic drugs. I take mine mostly.
     The marshmallow bursts into orange flames, and I remove the stick from the fire. I watch the flame melt away the white into a light brown, and then black before I blow it out. Mom insists we make our s'mores from dark chocolate. Dee thinks it's just stupid, but she goes along with it.
    I bite into the S’more and as its flavor spreads over my taste buds, a memory – which seems real anyway – spreads over my brain.
     The pretty lady.
     Dad and I sit on the bank of the river. It's late. Mom and Dee are back at the campsite playing scrabble in the light of a Coleman lantern. They think our idea of making s'mores at midnight is ridiculous.  I'm hoping I can talk dad into midnight swim.
      I bite into the S’more – milk chocolate not dark.
     "Clifford!"
     My dad whirls around and sees a pretty lady.
     "Oh my! I haven’t seen you in ages!"

     He jumps up and hugs her, but I notice it's kind of like the hugs I get from aunts and uncles and other relatives I don't want hugs from. The pretty lady is stiff like the sticks we’re using to roast marshmallows.
     "We need to talk. "
     "Sure," Dad says.
     "Not here." She nods toward me. I know what that means. "Swim with me to the rocks."
     I want to go, but I know I can’t.
     Dad and the pretty lady swim to the rock.  Though I can't see them really, I hear a word or two over the murmur of the river, but I stop straining to hear and concentrate on my s'mores.
     Soon, they're back.
     "Where is he? "
    "Passed out," the pretty lady says, "as usual. "
     "I have to think," Dad says.
     "Think fast." The pretty lady looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then, she pats my cheek, gentle but kind of sad, and kisses me on the forehead. "You're a handsome young man, "she says. She glances at dad one more time and then walks away, the night silently swallowing her up.
     "Here's your s’more." I hold it up for dad.
      "We need to get back," he says. "I feel sick."
      The next morning we go back home. I see the pretty lady and even her two kids just one more time before Dad drowns, and we stop going to the river.