15. Alina
FIFTEEN
ALINA
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
I’ve decided I hate sound. Sound reminds me the world is somehow still spinning. People are still living. Time is still moving. Like nothing has changed. Like Heaven didn’t just steal a piece of my soul.
I hate sound.
So today, I pick silence.
Lying in the middle of Mama’s bed, the pillow that still smells of her catching my tears, I choose to be still.
At least here, I can freeze time. Just for a little bit.
I pretend I don’t hear when the door creaks open, the tap, tap, tap of shoes scuffling across the wood floor. It’s Jax, I just know it. He’s the only one besides Becca who’s been by my side through all this, and at this point, I can decipher who they are based on the weight of their walk.
The mattress dips when Jax’s warm body sinks down behind me, cradling me in his arms, and I close my eyes, more tears slipping from the corners and onto the pillow. Jax is silent.
He knows what it’s like to hate the noise.
It’s impossible to explain this feeling. No words to express the pain of losing the one person who loved you most in the world. No way to describe the devastation in knowing no one will ever love you that way again.
If you’ve never lost a parent, you won’t understand. But Jax does, because Jax has . I stay strong in the face of everyone else, but with him, I can break.
And I do.
Over and over, I break.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips and catches on the rough, chapped edges. I swallow down the sadness, my throat so scratchy and dry it burns when I do.
A physical reminder that I can, in fact, still feel.
“Sweetheart,” Jax whispers. “We have to go soon. Do you need help getting ready?”
I shake my head, but I don’t move from my spot. I don’t open my eyes, because once I do, time will start again. I’ll have to wear my black dress and wave my white flag of surrender while pretending to give a damn that people are crying crocodile tears over Mama’s casket. If I open my eyes, I’ll have to watch them bury Mama six feet underground. I’ll have to hear the strongest man I know break apart because half of him is gone forever. I’ll have to taste the bitterness of knowing it took Mama’s death to bring my brother back to town.
So I think I’ll just keep them closed.
The service is beautiful. Yellow chrysanthemums and pink tulips line the pews, white stargazer lilies surrounding her casket. Bouquets and baskets sit on the floor in front of her picture.
Altogether, it’s a moving image.
I’m numb.
While Becca’s daddy preaches about the restoration of innocence for the departed and God’s love, I sit in the front row with my head down, wringing my handkerchief so tightly my knuckles blanch and my palms sting. Jax is on one side, his hand on my knee, and Becca is on the other with her palm on my back, pillars of support holding me up while my family crumbles beneath my feet.
I feel their touch.
Still, I’m numb.
The service ends, and I stand between Daddy and Eli, lost in thoughts of who the masochist was that thought up the idea of a receiving line. My sweaty palms grasp a hundred different hands as they whisper their condolences, and I keep my head bowed and mumble my thanks. But then a different hand grasps mine, a flicker of static running through my fingertips.
I don’t look up right away, but eventually, I do.
Chase’s face is relieved. Like being in front of me is all he needed to feel whole again. Lucky for him, feeling whole is still a possibility. His hair is a knotted mess, the strands fighting over which direction to lie. Yet he’s nearly perfect, of course. He always is.
But his beauty doesn’t move me.
“Goldi.”
I blink.
“Baby, I am so…” His voice cracks, lower lip trembling as he wipes his hand over his mouth. “Your mom. I can’t even?—”
“So don’t.” The words come across as flat as they feel rolling off my tongue.
He swallows harshly. His eyes bounce to Eli, then Daddy, until they land back on me, that hand of his tugging on his roots, the same way it always does when he’s dealing with emotion he’d rather forget. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. But, fuck… I just want you to know I’m here. Take all the time you need, but, baby, I’ll be here.”
Laughter bubbles up inside of me, and as inappropriate as it is, I can’t stop it from spilling out. It’s brash. The sound echoes off the walls, reverberating, mocking me with its tone.
“I don’t really give a fuck where you’ll be, Chase.”
His eyes grow wide.
“Are we done here?” I drop his hand.
Daddy doesn’t even look at us, too busy taking sips from his flask of whiskey. Not that I blame him.
Chase is still as a statue when I walk away, his hand pressed against his chest and his eyes glossy with unshed tears. I should probably feel something after leaving him there that way, but I don’t.
Usually, I depend on others to drive me around, what with me not having a car of my own, but today I’ve got the family car. Daddy’s too drunk to get behind the wheel, and Eli’s here so he can be the one to take care of getting him from place to place. I drive aimlessly around town for what feels like hours, until the blazing sun disappears, and the inky black sky takes its place, darkness blanketing the ground. With every street I turn down, there’s a memory of Mama, and it hurts something fierce, almost as if every good thing in the world has been ripped out from under me, and all that’s left is the pain of her absence.
Eventually, I find my way home, even though it’s the last place I want to be. Earlier today was the first time I’d even been here in ten days. Ten days of avoidance, of not wanting to surround myself with memories and choosing to hide away in Jax’s shadow and at his place instead.
I go straight to my room and lie in bed, staring up at the glowing stars on my ceiling.
They make me think of Chase.
Anger licks at my insides, and the blaze makes me gasp. Up until now, there’s been nothing inside me but a hollow ache, and I’ve found comfort in feeling numb. The rush of fiery emotion is a jolt to my system.
How dare he come to Mama’s funeral .
I grab on to the rage, marveling at how it unfurls inside me like an inferno. My heart pounds in my ears as I jump out of bed and rush to my desk in the corner, grabbing the chair and dragging it to the center of the room. My shin hits the wooden leg and makes me wince as I climb to stand on the seat, but the pain is muted compared to how I’m feeling on the inside. I reach up, the stretch radiating down my arm and side, my fingers grasping on to a star and ripping it off the ceiling.
My chest heaves as I watch it fall to the floor.
I repeat the action, fingernails tearing and knuckles bruising as I punch deep into the plaster, again and again.
Rip. Watch. Repeat.
Eventually, I collapse to the ground.
A graveyard of stars surrounds me.
I smile.
Heartbreak is easier to hide in the dark.