19. Hotaru
The sunlight streams in through the window, burning my retinas even through my eyelids. I wish it was night still. The day holds too much, as have the last fourteen days without Arlo.
Too much weight. Too much worry. Too much emptiness.
It’s like the void of his presence sucked my will to live along with it.
But today is different.
I shove onto my ass, let my feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and drive the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. The grit and grime from several days without a shower and too many hours sleeping feel like sandpaper on my sensitive skin.
When I manage to peel my eyelids apart, I’m met with the consequences of my depressive state. Clothes are strewn about. Empty wrappers and water bottles litter the floor and desk. My computer has collected a layer of dust, the part that’s showing at least. The rest of it is buried under sheets of paper and crumpled attempts at journaling I’d done the day after he left. It was a sorry attempt to reel myself in from the brink.
My body hurts from neglect. I haven’t had a proper meal in more than a week. The stash of snacks my grandmother sent is depleted, along with my desire to face the day.
I suck in a breath, and it shudders in my lungs.
Memories of my mother swim behind my eyes. There were stints throughout my childhood when my mother didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. Where the house would become a mess and we didn’t eat real meals for weeks on end. Only when my father was out of town.
Of course, I relished the time spent tucked under the covers next to her, watching movie after movie, and eating ice cream and popcorn for dinner.
Then Dad would come home.
Things would go back to their rigid ways. Meals at six p.m. sharp. House so clean you could eat off the floors. Sleep only came at night.
And I had no idea that those things, these things in my room and my brain, are signs of depression.
My head hangs between my shoulders. Not because depression has gotten the best of me these last two weeks, but because I didn’t recognize it in my mother, and I didn’t do anything to help her.
I know that once Arlo is back, I won’t succumb to the listless pull of it.
I wonder if that’s how my mom felt with my dad around. Was he her anchor to relief or part of the cause of her torment?
I certainly don’t want to be a burden for Arlo. He has plenty on his own. I’ve never really felt like this before. I hope it’s a fluke and not something in my genes destined to send me into a spiral.
When I push off the bed, my feet crunch on a water bottle and some discarded paper. I kick them out of the way and set to cleaning. It’s a mundane task that keeps my hands moving just enough to keep my mind blank.
For a little while.
The minute I toss myself into the shower thoughts of Arlo attack me. Images of our last time together in this very spot tickle a smile on my lips that quickly fades.
I’m pissed that he left with his uncle. Day after day, I try to understand why he had to. I’m mad at myself for not going to kill the bastard before that.
I could have shoved him down the stairs and made it look like an accident. I could have held a pillow over his head, and the coroner wouldn’t have even called an inquest. The man was big and old. He probably dined on the souls of small children and puppies morning, noon, and night. That diet is bound to clog the arteries.
“Fuck that demon piece of shit,” I grumble, scrubbing my skin clean.
Laundry comes next. I shuffle it to the washroom at the back of our building and toss many bags of garbage out along the way. Inside, I watch the constant loop, loop, loop of my sheets in one machine, only pulling my gaze away to stare at my clothes in the other.
My body vibrates like the machines on the spin cycle, thinking about Arlo’s return. It’s a fraught mix of excitement and dread. I long to see his beautiful face and hear his unique voice. I need to know he’s alive and that he will indeed recover. At the same time, I’m terrified to see the physical marks of the torment he endured. Even more so, I’m scared to see the damage it’s done to his insides. I know I’ll see it in his eyes.
I remember how he looked when he first arrived at school. Stunning and gaunt. I remember how he acted when he first came here. Alert and withdrawn.
Hope that he’ll be in a good mental space isn’t enough to make it so. I wish it was. The desire that his body is unharmed isn’t enough to force it into reality. Regardless, I know I’ll accept Arlo however he is returned to me as long as he’s breathing and his heart is pumping.
It’s a miserably low fucking bar.
After I haul my clean clothes to my room and set everything to right, no one would know that I’ve had a depressive episode, and that’s how I want it.
I haul myself to the cafeteria. There are only a handful of kids in the place. Most families, even the ones who leave their kids here over the summer, call forth their offspring for the holidays. If for no other reason than they like showing them off. Look at my well-bred, highly educated clone.
Sitting in my usual spot without Arlo proved too much the first day. I ignore it now, choosing a seat near the empty head tables. I scarf down food that threatens to come back up with every bite.
My nerves wind tighter and tighter as the hours roll by, bringing me closer to his arrival time. I don’t expect him to be in the first wave. His prison guard will keep him as long as possible. Luckily, the window is small for student return.
“Well, well.” A decidedly feminine voice purrs from over my shoulder. “I expected to see you more often over the break.”
I turn to find Miss Booth smiling down at me.
Her hair is curled and loose today, falling around her little breasts. Her cardigan trims tight at her waist, and her relaxed floral skirt flares out at her hips, hitting her mid calf.
On any other day, this opportunity would have my dick up. As it is though, I barely keep from groaning. I don’t want to interact with anyone except Arlo.
“Hello, Miss Booth.”
The pretty young woman sits on the bench next to me, keeping her legs out in the aisle. She sees me looking and crosses them, nearly brushing my ass with her bare calf.
Of course, I’m looking. I’m not dead.
“Call me Emily.” Her gaze flits about the room, then returns to me. “When it’s just us.”
“Sure, Emily.” I nod, place my utensils on the tray, and push it back.
“I was hoping to see you during the break.”
My gaze meets hers. “Why’s that?”
She slaps my shoulder, and her cheeks blush to the color of her sweater. It’s quite the contrast on her pale skin. “You know.” Her laugh is high and frightened.
The frightened part does something to my dick.
“No, I don’t,” I deadpan, forcing her to say what she wants.
Her white teeth come out and snag her lower lip. She looks at her pink pumps, and I envision fucking her while she’s bent over in only her heels as Arlo watches.
“I thought…” She swallows, still not looking at me. “I thought we liked each other.”
“I don’t know you,” I say evenly. I don’t want to know her.
“I mean, like looking at each other,” she amends, meeting my gaze.
“You have entirely too many clothes on for that.” I give her a wink, which is all I can muster. Then I grab my tray, toss my legs over the bench, stand, and deposit my things in the tray return. She’s still sitting in her spot, watching me as I head for the exit.
“We could change that,” she whispers over the distance.
“Maybe we could. One day.” I leave her staring after me, realizing how much I would have gotten off on that encounter at the beginning of the year and how much I don’t care about it now.
There’s only one person I care about.
I rush across campus to my room. I open my door to the bathroom wide and sit at my desk. Like a dog, I stare at the door and wait for my owner—the owner of my heart, body, and soul—to return.
I stare for so long my eyes cross. The cacophony in the hallway picks up to concert levels with the bustle of boys and their bags. With each passing minute, my heart rate jumps.
By the time I hear the rattle of Arlo’s door, I feel as though I’ve gone twenty rounds on the mats. My hands fist the front of my trousers, and I have to force myself not to run to him.
I wait and wait some more, and then wait longer still for Arlo to open the door, for him to come to me in whatever capacity he can.
The light fades through the window. Still, he doesn’t come.
Finally, I can’t take any more. I limp to his door on tingling legs, hold my breath, and brush a soft knock on the wood.
Again, he doesn’t come. There’s not a whisper of a sound from his side.
Panic that I’ve valiantly managed to keep at bay for so many hours burrows into my heart and is distributed into my bloodstream with each thud of my pulse. It grows louder and louder until I hear nothing else.
I grab the handle and…
The knob holds tight. Locked.
My head meets the cold and unforgiving wood. Tears slip down my face.
“Please.” It’s one word in his tattered voice. The word is ragged and broken, and I know what it means.
I nod, though he can’t see me, and push from the door. I climb into my bed with all my clothes on and cry myself to sleep.