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 justhadto 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 fromus.
Her own sisters. Her ownfamily.
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 onto. 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 badpeople. 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.
