Chapter 1 #2
She leaves it at that, and I conclude that I don’t even want to know. I know better than to push her. Yet there remains a small, insistent part of me that wonders what happened. With her job. With her.
“Well… I guess I’ll see you soon?” I offer, forcing lightness into my voice that feels like it might crack, but I can’t afford for that to happen. Because cracking means gathering the pieces again, and I’m too tired for that.
“Milo agreed to lend me some money in the meantime. I’ll be home soon,” she says before hanging up.
The line goes dead, leaving me standing there, holding the phone, feeling the quiet press in around me.
I take a deep breath, my mind already stirring up more solutions.
More ways to put food on the table. That seems to be my only thought these days.
That, and finding a third job, because clearly two isn’t enough.
***
Lying on what barely passes for a bed– just a mattress with a lonely pillow and a thin blanket that offers little warmth – I find myself staring at the dark ceiling. I just had to sell my last source of comfort, didn’t I?
Out of desperation, I sold a few things, including a bunch of Mason’s old paintings. Even some of mine that, admittedly, weren’t very good. After all, Mason was always the prodigy.
The thought of picking up a brush disgusts me now. Painting was something I did with my dad.
And Mason.
His absence resulted in that passion going cold, every stroke a memory I didn’t think I could bear. And maybe it was a little sad… to drop that part of my life. And maybe I should have been more sad. Had I had the time, perhaps I would’ve been.
I glance sidewards at Naomi sleeping peacefully in her bed. Whenever she’s out, I always sneak into her room for a few minutes and lie on her comparatively more comfortable bed. Sam, however, always locks her door when she goes somewhere, like now for example.
For as long as I can remember, she has always kept her life so private and hidden away.
Hidden away from us.
Her own sisters. Her own family.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she left for good. It’s not like she can’t; she’s eighteen now.
But despite that, I can’t help but feel the guilt nag at me.
I should be doing something more than just lying and staring at a ceiling.
I’m not even sleeping, for goodness sake.
The mattress beneath me begins to feel less and less comfortable, and the blanket does absolutely nothing to defend me against the cold winter night.
And as exhaustion continues to tug at my eyelids, I fight the urge to get up and do something. I’m not even entirely sure what. Just something. Anything other than this.
Because at this rate, I’m not only failing my family, but also college.
***
It’s November 14, and over these past few days, it’s only been getting colder here in Canterbury. It makes me anxious for the first snowfall.
Today is a Wednesday. Nine days ago, it was a Monday, and twelve days ago was my phone conversation with Sam.
She was supposed to be here eleven days ago.
I don’t know what I expected. Naomi warned me this would happen, that I shouldn’t expect anything. But is it so wrong to have hope? Hope in a sister. Hope in my family.
Hope.
Hope.
But maybe it’s human nature to cling to it, to let it dig its way into your skin, even when you know it’s sharp and unkind.
And how do you tell yourself not to hope?
The thing about hope is that it’s a cruel, stubborn thing, always staying far enough ahead that you can never quite catch it, but close enough that you keep trying.
You’d think I’d have learned by now, but still, there it is.
Waiting. Flickering in the edges, just real enough to hold on to.
And you’re unable to stop the way it cuts you, leaves you bleeding for something that’ll never happen.
And you tell yourself it’s okay… because you’re bleeding for a good cause, but the truth is, you’ll bleed from anything if you hold it the right way.
I stand in the empty kitchen, my fingers brushing over the cold countertop, tracing invisible patterns while the pale, cold light filters in.
It’s almost icy here, the tiled floor numbing my feet even through my socks.
The broken boiler doesn’t help. I try not to think about the cost of fixing it as I pull my hands away from the sink, fingers stiff from the cold.
Even the warmth of the stove doesn’t do much; the whole room feels swallowed in that bitter, bone-deep chill.
And yet, I’m up early, alone. Alone and determined to scrape together something that feels like breakfast. A real one, not just scraps or stale bread. Scrambled eggs and a handful of vegetables —something tasty and warm. Something proper. We haven’t had a meal like this in… I don’t know how long.
I make enough for both Naomi and me, setting the table with plates and cutlery.
The smell hits me right in the face and I’m suddenly reminded of my empty stomach again.
It’s okay, I tell myself. It’ll be worth it in the end.
Everything happens for a reason and in the end, everything will fall into place.
In the end maybe… but when exactly will that be?
I’ve been telling myself that for years, but if everything happens for a reason, what reason is there to let people live like this? What makes someone deserving?
Did Dad deserve to get into that crash? Did Mason deserve to lose his life so early? Does Mum deserve the state she’s in? No, no and no.
And yet we’re told bad things will come to bad, evil people. But Dad wasn’t evil, and Mason wasn’t evil, and Mum isn’t either. They may have done bad things, but they aren’t bad people. So, what exactly makes a person so deserving of such a horrible fate? Why are some people luckier than others?
Just as I finish, I hear Naomi rushing down the stairs, her jumper pulled tight around her shoulders as she steps into the kitchen.
Her eyes widen in what I imagine to be disbelief, staring back and forth between me and the table.
“Y-you made this?” she stammers, staring at me like she can’t quite believe her eyes, and I don’t exactly blame her. I’m having trouble believing it myself.
I can’t help but laugh as she nearly trips over herself getting to the table, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of pride amongst the guilt, that I managed to put together something worthy.
I reach for a glass of water, about to tell her all about what happened on the phone call with Sam, when I hear the unmistakable turn of a key in the lock.
The door opens, and in she steps. I stiffen, my hand frozen mid-pour.
There’s so much I want to say, but instead I just stare at her blankly.
“You’re back,” I say more to myself than her.
Sam looks exhausted. And in all honesty, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’s lost weight, her usually almost-brown hair now chopped short to her shoulders, her vibrant brown eyes lacking their usual spark. She looks empty.
“Sit. Have some eggs,” I offer, sliding my plate toward her. I settle for an apple instead. Sam doesn’t protest. In fact, she eats as if she hasn’t eaten anything in days. Is Milo not providing for her?
What is wrong with him?
I sit down next to her, taking a bite of my apple. An awkward silence hangs in the air. Naomi stares down Sam and I seriously debate holding her back in case she suddenly pounces.
Sam looks back without a hint of remorse.
“So…” I cough awkwardly, attempting to break the silence. “You found a job yet?”
“Has Naomi?” she fires back, and Naomi rolls her eyes.
“I’m not the one who left.” Her gaze sharpens. “And seriously, Milo clearly isn’t doing you any favours. You’ve lost it, just like Mason. Just like Mum.”
Sam looks as if Naomi has punched her.
“What the hell, Naomi? You heartless little—”
“Enough!” I practically yell. “That was out of line, Naomi. Especially now.”
“You don’t deserve to say his name,” Sam shoots back at Naomi.
I’m barely keeping it together at this point. All I want to do is scream at her and tell her that our mother is practically destroying herself upstairs and she should have the same amount of respect for her as she does for our brother. Our dead brother. Since all they seem to do is talk about him.
The favoured brother that everyone adored like he was some saint. They didn’t see what I saw. They hadn’t seen his halo slip, as I had. And I would always wonder if their love would survive the uncovering of a monster. The monster that hid in plain sight. I suppose now I’ll never know.
I want to believe he wasn’t a bad person. Or evil. Or deserved it. He’s my family, I shouldn’t think that way. But sometimes it’s hard not to, with all the things he did.
Naomi narrows her eyes at Sam but remains silent, a simmering anger still evident in her glare leaving me wondering when she would finally explode. Which would inevitably lead to a long, heated argument, so maybe she could keep it under wraps this time?
Sam, on the other hand, leans back, her gaze fixed on Naomi, giving her a silent warning I can’t quite understand. A twin thing, I figure.
“Milo broke up with me last week,” Sam blurts, breaking free of their weird stare-off. Her voice sounds almost softer, more fragile than before.
I don’t know how, but I can almost feel the shift in the atmosphere. Is it just me or did the room get colder? If that’s even possible.
Naomi’s expression falters, momentarily caught off guard, and I just stare.
I should probably say something, anything.
I want to feel sorry for her, really I do, but I can’t seem to find it in myself.
The reality is that Sam left us when she should have stayed.
Picked a person she barely knows over family.
Naomi looks at Sam as if she’s about to say something, until a knock forces our gazes to the door.
I stare mostly because we haven’t had anyone come over since we had Mason, so obviously we aren’t expecting anyone.
“Did you invite anyone over?” Sam asks me in complete disbelief, as if to say of course not. As if I could have anyone to invite.
I glare at her as she turns her gaze to Naomi, asking her the same question, and without exchanging any more words we all rise from our seats simultaneously. I steal a glance at Naomi and Sam, both mirroring my confusion, before I open the door.