Dad’s jaw fell open and Vicki looked at her salad. Sam hovered between standing and sitting.
“Well, Ara—” Vicki placed her fork on her plate and folded her fingers in front of her chin, “—do you feel better now you’ve effectively displayed your maturity in front of your fourteen-year-old brother?”
My arms fell to my sides. I just couldn’t believe it. I’d had enough—just about all a girl could take. I watched them all—waiting for me to respond. But I had no response. Of course I didn’t feel better. What a stupid question to ask. “How you think I feel, Vicki?” My chair fell over and hit the wall as I pushed it out with the backs of my legs and ran from the room.
“Let her go,” Dad said calmly as I thudded up the stairs, holding my forearm across the ache in my gut. I couldn’t stop it; it all wanted to come out—all the fear, the heartbreak, the grief. I knew too well what I felt for David; knew no one could understand it; knew it was crazy. And I knew, if losing everyone I loved so far hadn’t killed me, loving David would.
I slammed my bedroom door unintentionally hard, sending vibrations through the house, making my open window rattle. Then, with a wailing breath, slid down the door and sat on the ground, hugging my knees to my chest—making myself as small as possible. I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t even find a good enough reason to breathe. I wanted to go home. Just wanted to go back and make it all okay again. But I couldn’t, and I was so tired of losing people—so tired of hurting to the point where crying just seemed pointless. It never helped. Tears or none, nothing ever changed. I just wished I could figure out what horrid crime I committed in a past life and atone for it, so maybe this life wouldn’t suck so much.
Outside, the sunlight turned orange and the soft yellow glow that filled my room earlier slipped away with an empty blackness. My nose went cold and my cheeks numb and, after a while, an eerie rumble of thunder growled as a flash of white scorched the sky for a split second, then disappeared.
I stayed motionless in my nightmare life, listening to the quiet patter of rainfall that crept into my world under the cover of night—afraid to move, afraid to cry anymore in case the brooding storm should find me here.
The familiar sound of doors being locked into place and lights flicked off around the house filled the wordless evening with noise. My parents’ footsteps thudded up the stairs and, while the lighter ones continued down the hall, the heavy ones stopped by my door. I sunk my face into crossed arms, holding my breath. Please don’t come in, Dad.
“I’m sure she’s sleeping,” Vicki whispered.
“I know. I just…”
“I know,” Vicki said softly.
The footsteps faded to the other end of the house and silence swept over the night once more as Dad’s bedroom door closed. My real mum would’ve told him to check on me—to open the door anyway and make sure I was all right. She would’ve followed him in, warming the sudden unwelcome chill in here, and she would’ve told me not to be silly. Told me to get up off the floor and get into bed; that when I woke in the morning, everything would seem clear again. And a part of me knew that, but not having her here to say it made the pain, made missing her, so much worse.
As I lifted my head and considered climbing into bed, a low rumble rolled across the roof, like a hundred horses running past on hard ground, the noise electrifying the skies with silver forks. It was almost as if the storm had lain dormant, building, waiting for my family to go to bed. I covered my head, crying into my knees. I had nowhere to hide—no one to cuddle up safely beside. I was too old to climb into bed with Dad and Vicki now, and too far away from the phone on the other side of the room, in front of my open window, to call Mike.
I counted the seconds between the thunder, sliding my hands up the wood of the door, edging stiffly to my feet. Then, as soon as it struck and grew silent again, I ran, wedged my fingers onto the top of the wooden frame and slammed my window shut—drawing the curtains together before the next strike of lightning. It hit as I turned away, making me squeal and trip all over myself to get away from the window; I fell into my stool, climbing onto it, and leaned my head on my hands against the dresser.
With the curtains closed, the darkness of my room swallowed up my reflection—mirroring back only the outline of my head, shoulders and, as the lightning flashed again, the image of my mother—smiling down at the tiny baby in her arms. I lifted the photo frame from the dresser and kissed them both, then wiped away the smudge my lips left on the glass. This was my favourite photo. My only photo. I so clearly remembered the day I took it; Harry, who was about two months old, had just been bathed, and my mum—I ran my fingers over her face—wrapped him safely in a towel. Then, when she looked down at him again, I took the shot, capturing the exact moment she saw her baby’s first real smile. This was how I wanted to remember them, but at night, when I closed my eyes, it was the last seconds I ever saw them that flashed into my dreams—making the smiles and the sunlight fade from nearly every memory.
Resting my bare forearms on the wood of the dresser, cold and exhausted from all the crying, I dropped my head between my hands and let the warm, salty tears fall over my nose and drip away. “I’m so sorry, Mum,” I whispered to nothing. “I’m so, so sorry.”
My crystals lashed against the window frame as the gloomy sky shoved its way into my morning, blowing papers around in the remains of the tsunami that hit my desk last night. I sat up on my elbows and looked down at the quilt covering my still fully dressed self then over at the shoes laid out neatly by my bedroom door, as if I was entering a dojo.
Great, I thought, flopping back, pulling the blankets over my head. So, I’ve finally gone insane enough to put things away neatly while sleepwalking myself into bed.
“Ara-Rose. Time to get up.” Vicki banged on my door, making me jump.
“I’m up,” I called, throwing my covers back. I wandered over and shut my window on the stormy day, drawing the curtains across, then slumped in my desk chair with a loud groan. All my homework was ruined—every little bit. I tried to separate the dry pages from the wet ones, but dropped them all with a huff of defeat. It was no use; I’d have to start all over again.
I propped my head against my hand, my elbow on the desk. Time had escaped me. I’d be late for school if I didn’t get my act together, but I just didn’t feel like being a part of the world. Everything in my life that was once worth living for was now gone, or thousands of miles on the other side of the world. After months of trying so hard to keep it together, to be normal and move on, I’d finally had enough. I couldn’t think of one good reason to get dressed.