Chapter 6
Mireya
Past
Play- Possibility by Lykke Li
The Last Firefly
Drawing always makes me feel good. My sketches are not that pretty, but it’s not easy to draw on my skin; the bruises hurt when I press on them with my pen.
The rooftop is cold today, and dad is not home this week, so I think I’m doing well.
I’m glad Dad isn’t here, my arm still hurts, and my back stings when I lie down on my bed, I think... I think I'm scared of him even more now.
Someone starts crying downstairs, loud enough that I drop my pen on my thigh. It’s Milo. He’s crying again. I lean over the edge of the rooftop and yell through the open window, “Mom! Milo’s crying!” My voice bounces off the walls, but nothing answers back.
Why won’t anyone answer me?
The crying keeps going, louder now, like he’s running out of breath.
Please don’t let this be a bad day.
I tuck the pen in my pocket and hurry downstairs.
The hallway is quiet, but I can still hear my little brother crying.
When I push open the room door, Milo is on the floor blanket, his tiny face all scrunched up and wet and mom is on the bed, turned to the side, a bottle still in her hand, like she fell asleep holding it.
I always get scared when she sleeps like this.
“Mom?” I whisper first, then a little louder. “Mom, he’s crying.”
I shake her arm gently, but she doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t even move.
I try to touch her forehead with my fingers, then push her hair out of her face. She’s all sweaty, and shaking. Dad always says don’t bother her, but what else can I do when she’s like that?
She’ll wake up soon.
Grown-ups forget things a lot. Maybe she just forgot to wake up and make sure the baby is okay.
Milo starts wailing again, so I stop trying and pick him up instead. He’s cute, really cute. He already has mom’s eyes. I hold him the way I’ve seen Mom do on good days, a hand behind his head, his body against my chest.
My arms tremble a little, but he fits against me like he knows I’m trying my best.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, even though my throat feels tight. “I got you, baby.”
I sit down on the floor, rocking him slowly even though my arms feel shaky. The bruises are fading but the pain is still here. His little fist grabs my shirt like he’s holding on to me, and I softly press my cheek against his head, so he knows he’s not alone.
I start humming the song Mom used to sing when he was first born. I don’t remember all the words, so I made some up, but it seems to work, because Milo hiccups, then quiets.
It takes a while, but he finally settles his face against my shoulder like I’m the safest place he knows, and I whisper again against his warm skin, “I’ve got you; your sissy will always be here.”
When he finally sleeps, I stand up carefully because I really don't want to wake him up, and I look at Mom one more time. She has a big bruise on her eye, poor mom.
I don’t know what she needs, but I know what he needs now. So, I take him to my room, close the door softly, and keep humming.
If nobody else is going to take care of him, then I will.