He doesn’t say anything, just pulls the pillow so we can share, tucks a hand under his face, and closes his eyes. His bent knee presses into my leg.
“That one was one of mine,” Brett says smugly without missing a beat. He doesn’t comment on Bowen, and neither do I.
I hate storms, and my best friends know it.
I wake up with one of those best friends snoring in my face and the other one star-fished right on top, suffocating both of us with his Red the dragon plush tucked under his arm.
Brett doesn’t like storms, either. Not that he would ever admit it.
Dear B,
When we were nine, I was scared of the dark. I was scared of nightmares. Of storms. Do you remember? You and your brother gave me Red the dragon. I used to hug him to my chest at night, pretending it was a hug from you. From him. I swear some of your warmth was trapped inside the filling. Some of his bravery.
It wasn’t the dragon that followed me into my dreams. It was the two of you.
My best friends.
Nothing dark could materialize in my head if I went to sleep with a hug from you.
I’m not scared of the dark anymore. There isn’t anything in the dark that could scare me as much as the daylight. I’m terrified of it, B. Absolutely terrified to go outside. To face the sun.
It’s been two months since you’ve been gone.
I’m still suffocating.
I still can’t look at him.
I can’t.
“Kit?” Thebedroom door creaks as my mom opens it slowly, hesitating at the threshold. She looks in like she’s afraid of what’s being contained inside the four walls of my room. Scared of the monsters that are materializing with each passing day. Anger. Denial. Sadness. A torment I never knew existed. They feel as real as she does, hovering around the bed I haven’t left in days.
Weeks.
They’ve been watching me, waiting to see how I’ll respond to their presence. My mom watches me too, every time she comes in with her soft words of love and support. Like she can love me enough to make me get up.
She can’t.
“Do you want dinner? I made your favorite—chicken noodle soup.”
Was there a time I had favorite things? It’s hard to imagine.
The black blankets keep me safe from the light shining in through the window, but not safe from the memories. I glare at the window, my hands tucked under my cheek. Anger hums through the air. Inside and all around me.
“You have to eat something, sweetie.”
I should tell her that there isn’t room for food inside me. There isn’t room for anything else but all these emotions I spend all day choking on. There isn’t space for her inside this room. Not for her sweet voice and silent pleas to get up.
I close my eyes, tuning her out. Tune out the shake of her voice when she finally realizes another day is going to end without me responding.
The door creaks the same when she closes it, and I open my eyes back up. I feel the monsters hover closer. So close I’m surrounded, paralyzed to do anything but suffocate.
I can’t survive this.
Kit
Age 10
My parents are going to wonder why there are so many markers lying in the driveway. Maybe I can sneak out there in the morning, pick them all up before they notice. I bite my lip, taking the yellow marker from the box and throwing it out my bedroom window as hard as I can. I can’t see in the dark well, nothing but the streetlights out front illuminating the driveway between our houses, but I hear it smack against something.
