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mycharacterdump · 1 year ago

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i am my mother's child , i'll love you 'til my breathing stops .

Summertime was coveted for Sebastian’s family. While he was but little; made up of plump limbs and cherub cheeks, always burning red yet never running a fever, sprouts of bright, curly blond hair budding from his crown, a real life angel — he could still remember fragments of it all. The before, the during, the after. He was a restless baby. A bit colicky but not as much as some of his other siblings. So, he would be whining helplessly in his crib and he would see the shadow of his mother appear from the light bleeding in through the crack of his nursery door. He would squirm around excitedly, welcoming her company with a squeal that she had to quiet every time she lifted him from his bed. He could feel her warm laughter echo against the confines of her ribcage as she held him up against her chest and let him nurse. They would sit in the rocking chair together and she would hum a song. She had the prettiest voice he ever heard, never missing a note or falling flat. He’d fall asleep in her arms within minutes, and then he would wake up all over again in the morning to one of his siblings rustling him until his eyes came open.

Then, he would be changed and dressed for the long drive. His mother would preoccupy him with bright toys and more singing — sometimes his father would intervene, but his methods of distraction were much less successful. His heart was enmeshed with his mother’s. He never thought that would ever change. Once he was clad in a onesie and a pair of tiny shorts, he was lifted onto his mother’s hip and paraded around the house while everyone scrambled to assemble their backpacks and suitcases. These trips lasted throughout the summer, so everyone needed to be certain they’d packed their beloved stuffed animals and all the movies on DVD they’d need to watch on nights spent in, away from the rest of the world. Sebastian was a gleeful observer of the chaos, occasionally giggling whenever his siblings would wind up in spats with one another that his father was forced to mitigate.

The drive was Sebastian’s favorite part. They were split in groups of two: the triplets and Honey were sorted in his father’s shiny BMW while India, Harrison and himself took up residence in their mother’s tried and true Mercedes-Benz G Class; where she would keep all the windows half-open so they could experience the shift in atmosphere during the journey. He would be placed in his carrier and watch the cityscape of Long Island disappear in flurries of orange lampposts and glowing traffic lights. As they coasted along the interior of Connecticut and Rhode Island they would merge through thick swathes of forests into the outskirts of suburbia, until they finally arrived on the shores of Cape Cod after four tedious hours of intermittent arguing amongst his siblings with whom he shared the backseat.

Upon arrival, Sebastian was hardly cognizant of their destination as his mother carted him from the car up to their family cottage. He could hear the distinct chatter of excitement from the others, which he was too tired to emulate. On the first night, he would eat in the comfort of his mother’s arms and fall asleep soundly in a bassinet attached to the side of the master bed. He never found better rest in his entire life.

When awake and alert he would spend his time perched on his mother’s back and exploring the world around them; the beaches, where he was introduced to the prickling cold water and the soft, warm sand he could manipulate with his tiny hands to be whatever he desired — most of the time useless balls he utilized to toss at whichever brother or sister was close enough to target; the town, basking in the sunbeams as his mother would proudly display him to all the people that took interest in his miniature bucket hat and jelly shoes, or tasting new foods at the gourmet restaurants they always asked for outside seating at, and sometimes he even adapted more patience so his father could cradle him and point out all the dolphins that would leap and pierce the air in the distance. And then Max would offer to carry him all the way back to their cottage, hopping and skipping over every crack in the pavement, which, naturally, upset Sebastian’s stomach and led to him spitting up down the back of his older brother’s shirt.

Life was simple. It was peaceful. Harmonic. All the notes of his parents’ and siblings’ individual melodies aligning and producing a delightful consonance. He thought things would be this way forever, as any new soul would assume. The worst thing that had ever happened to him was an upset stomach.

Until he heard his mother cry for the first time.

His tiny nose scrunched up as a sudden light struck his closed eyes. Once stirring awake, he blinked a few times and stared ahead blankly at the wide crack in the bathroom door. He could see his mother collapsed against the cabinet, his father quick to fall beside her and scoop her into an embrace. He didn’t understand. What was there to cry about? Did her stomach hurt, too? Even if it had, she was so good at being happy in the face of any kind of suffering.

Though he was but little, he felt more than many do in their entire lives.

They returned home two weeks early. All of his siblings were disappointed; he couldn’t say whether or not he was. He had sensed his mother’s discomfort and a touch of apathy in everything she did — almost like she were running on instincts rather than being fully present — and it had unsettled him. While it seemed to have done much of the same on his siblings, they instead attached themselves to their father, who was more emotionally sound.

Sebastian clung tightly onto his mother for two long months. He cried out when someone else touched her and startled her, particularly his father, and the gap between them widened with every passing day. If he weren’t so little, if he weren’t so clueless, he’d have followed in tow with the rest and leaned on his father for better comfort, but he didn’t want to leave his mother behind. He didn’t want her leaving him behind, either. So by her side he remained. It seemed to soothe her for a time, his devoted presence, though occasionally she would hold him against her chest and her bones would begin to rattle and when he glanced up, she was reduced to tears again.

The seasons changed. Summer deliquesced into autumn, the leaves on the tree that was planted outside his nursery window withering from bright green to muted oranges and browns. Blue skies evaporated, sucked into a vortex of grey fog that hung low on the shores of Long Island. It began raining every other day. A steady pitter patter of rain made discordant music on his windowpane. Sometimes the ground beneath him would rumble and the sky above would shatter and he would cry, startled. And rather than hear his mother’s soft inflection break through the chaos and rescue him from the storm, he was lifted from his crib and into his father’s arms. He was shuttled around the house while his siblings were cared for, occasionally hushed as the earth kept falling apart around them. He didn’t like this, any of it. None of it felt right. Where was his mother? Not only her presence, but her spirit. Where had she gone? Did he do something wrong?

And then, like magic, one day his mother crept up behind him and scooped him off the floor and began blowing raspberries against his cheek. He erupted into laughter that felt foreign within the confines of his tiny chest and reached out giddily to grasp onto her curls. She then took a hold of his tiny hand and placed it against her stomach. He didn’t understand. How could he? All he knew was that it felt firmer than before, and… It was very round. Had she eaten too much? Sometimes his stomach did that.

“You’re going to be a big brother, Bash,” his mother informed him delightfully.

Oh.

He still wasn’t certain what that meant for him. He wouldn’t be for a long time. He was the same observer he’d always been as the months passed by quicker than ever; soon enough his nursery was being extended and a second crib was added beside his own — odd, that. This was his room. He didn’t share, not like the triplets. His grandparents’ visits came closer and closer together as they prepared for the new addition, Sebastian ever so confused why they would coo over his mother’s belly rather than him.

His father spent more time with him. He’d always made attempts, but Sebastian had thwarted them. He was his mother’s child and hers alone. But his father didn’t seem to think the same. Nowadays, though, Sebastian wasn’t given much of a choice. His mother was preoccupied with redecorating his room and making sure everything would be just right in time for the new arrival. So, most afternoons, he was sat in his father’s lap as they took turns pointing out wrongdoings of his siblings while they tumbled around the living room engaging in scraps and petty arguments.

Maybe they had more in common than Sebastian had thought. They both enjoyed acknowledging things and then watching the chaos unfold. His father only intervened whenever Maisie was involved and threatened to bite. Otherwise, it was every man for himself.

“Are you excited, Seb?” his father asked rhetorically as a lull swept over the house. It happened like that occasionally. Everyone would either be occupied outside in the snow or huddled up together to keep warmth as they watched a movie in the theatre room. “New baby. You’ll get to take care of this one. Like how Harry took care of you.”

Well, that couldn’t be true. Harrison hardly took care of Sebastian. If any of his siblings assumed a parental role it was Max, who was really just an overachiever and kiss-up rather than an actual paternal figure in his life. Harrison quite liked tormenting his little brother, as a matter-of-fact, though not quite like Maisie had. She very much so enjoyed trapping him in laundry baskets and inside closets and sitting on him whenever she was given the chance. Did that mean he had free reign to do the same to his new sibling? He didn’t know if he’d like that as much as his siblings had.

“I think you’ll be a good big brother,” his father hummed while in thought.

Sebastian didn’t know if that was true. He didn’t care regardless, melting into his father’s embrace and falling asleep slowly to the sound of his heart. It was almost as comforting as his mother’s. If only he didn’t breathe so quickly. He needed to learn how to breathe like his momma, or else this would never work out.

His mother kept growing and his father never seemed so proud. They had even organized a party. For what? It wasn’t anyone’s birthday yet. Sebastian remained at his mother’s feet as she unwrapped gift after gift and filled the room with her infectious laughter. Everything was blue and pink. He hadn’t deduced why — he was busy chewing on the tied-off end of a balloon before his father snatched it out of his mouth and offered him an appropriate teething toy. He glared up at him before reluctantly shoving the chewy set of keys into his mouth.

On a bitter winter morning in late January, Sebastian was transferred to his grandparents’ custody alongside the rest of his siblings as they were hurriedly shuttled out of their home. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening, all he could hear was the sound of crying, which he emulated as he was strapped into his seat in the back of his grandfather’s car. The drive between residences felt like an eternity. Sebastian couldn’t even sleep, feeling worry permeate deep in his gut. He didn’t get to say goodbye to his mother. Had something happened? Was it the baby? Was it hurting her?

He gave his grandfather more grief than he likely deserved. He refused sleep and the offers of food. He kept looking around aimlessly, like his mother would appear from around a corner and apologize for scaring him. Except that moment never came. He felt more alone than ever. He didn’t have either of his parents there to comfort him for the first time in his life, and the touch of his extended family had never felt more foreign than during that eternal night.

His father arrived the following evening. Sebastian reached out, on the brink of tears as he hadn’t missed him more in his entire life. As he was hoisted onto his father’s waist, they were quickly crowded by the rest of his siblings who all had a thousand inquiries that he tried answering one by one. Yes, Momma is okay. She’s very tired from having your baby sister. We can go and see them tomorrow. Does that sound good?

A baby sister.

A sister.

A baby.

After a good night’s rest beside his father, Sebastian woke up that next day and was dressed warmly so he could visit the big white room where his mother was trapped. He was the last of his siblings to be let in, as they were each given their time with her according to their order of birth. The triplets huddled around her and Maisie kept staring blankly at the lump that their mother held close to her chest, just like she would do to Sebastian. Honey and India were enamored, already conspiring how they would take turns dressing her up. Harrison was mostly disinterested. He just wanted to show their mother the new book he acquired simply by passing the gift store and pointing it out to their father, who hardly ever denied them anything they wanted.

Then, Sebastian was lifted onto her bedside and he saw her smiling face and all felt right in the world again. He mirrored her smile and reached out so he could latch — but he was cupped by the stomach and held back by his father.

“Not your turn yet, Seb,” his father chuckled. “Gotta let Snowdrop eat some, too.”

Snowdrop?

Sebastian’s lips formed a pout and Reina reached out, brushing back his blond curls and soothing him better than anyone had since she left. “Here, look,” she said softly as she held his baby sister up so he could observe her features. She was even smaller than him. He didn’t know people could be that small. She was pink in her round cheeks and on the tip of her nose. Tentatively, he reached out, poking her there and wondering if she was real at all. She looked like one of Honey’s dolls.

She sneezed and Sebastian jumped. Everyone else laughed. And, for the first time in a long time, he began laughing along.

Life was a song again. This time, it gained a new melody. It was richer because of it. Maybe because nothing much had truly changed for Sebastian, not like he had thought they would. He was still their baby boy, even if he wasn’t the youngest anymore. He was loved and adored by his mother just as much as before, though he did have to split his time in half to share with Snowdrop as they were tandem nursing. That was alright. He didn’t need all that food. He would’ve liked it, but he didn’t need it.

He didn’t notice the tiredness in his mother’s gaze as the weeks wore on and his baby sister grew bigger and bigger. All he did was curl up beside her and make certain that Snowdrop wasn’t exhausting her too much. Whenever it seemed like his mother was going to doze off or if she appeared the slightest bit vexed, he would call out loudly: Daddy! and that would fix everything for a little while. Maybe his father was of more use than he assumed, after all.

As the two youngest, Sebastian and Snowdrop were often paired together. Especially now that their family was made up of an even number: a staggering ten total. They were introduced as a package deal, like he and Harry used to be. Now Harry spent all his time with Honey, India and Mim were forced into proximity so their personalities wouldn’t clash as much (this was unsuccessful), and Maisie and Max were always together — the twins, everyone called them. Mim didn’t seem to care. She liked being independent. This was made evident every time India would link their arms while they were walking and she would be swiftly discarded into the nearest ditch by the triplet.

Sebastian began taking this pairing very seriously as he gained more awareness of the world. He would climb out of bed at night and sit idle at her crib just to watch her sleep. He could tell when she had nightmares; her brow would twitch and her mouth would crease and she’d whine softly, but all it took was a couple of pats to her back to make her feel secure before she was asleep peacefully once more. He knew, even before their mother sometimes, when she was peckish. He fed her her first bite of solid food. It was his duty. He was her older brother. Her sworn protector.

He helped her form words whenever she tried speaking like the rest of her siblings did ever so constantly. Seh-bash-tee-ann. That’s my name. Suh-no-duh-rop. That’s your name. Can you say that? I can say it. Sebastian. Snowdrop. And although she couldn’t quite understand him, she still smiled and it made him smile, too.

When she pushed herself off the ground in an attempt to waddle toward their father, Sebastian was there to catch her as she inevitably tumbled to the ground. He was there every time, until eventually she didn’t need him to stand behind her anymore, and that was when he felt the first pang of abandonment. Would she not need him forever? Like how Maisie needed Max, the only other person aside from their parents who could coax her down from hysteria? Or how Harrison needed Honey, an ever-calm presence that knew just how to keep him from spiraling? Even India still required Mim for things, like tying her shoelaces and when she needed a passenger in her Barbie Jeep to terrorize the neighbors with.

Alas, she did not. On her first day of Pre-K and Sebastian's first day of kindergarten, she skipped ahead of all of them without looking back, and it might’ve struck him harder than it did their parents who sent her off. He was there that morning, watching intently as his mother braided her hair, memorizing each step in case she might’ve needed him to do the same for her. He helped her slip her light-up Skechers on. The Skechers he pointed out in the store when they went school shopping: bright turquoise with pink stripes, appropriately bedazzled at the toe so everyone would know how cool and trendy his baby sister was.

The realization that Snowdrop wasn’t as reliant on him as he was on her had been devastating. This must be how Momma feels all the time, he thought, and then came to the conclusion that if he wanted both their pain to subside, they would need one another more than anyone else in each other did. So he hung off her like a monkey, never giving her a moment’s rest. Every time his father would try and intervene, Sebastian would cry out and his mother would be there to blot away his tears.

The years came and went like this. When Sebastian was enrolled in his first season of sports, he grew a bit more distant, finding a sliver of independence where he never had before — but as soon as a ball would make a brutal collision with his nose or he slid too hard or too fast on the grass and acquired stains that burned through the skin, he would revert back to that same child that couldn’t breathe without his mother. Except now, whenever he would hold a cold compress to his bleeding nose, Snowdrop would come up beside him and lean her cheek on his shoulder and hold his hand until the throbbing subsided and he could stand without getting lightheaded.

He taught her well, he liked to think.

Two days shy of his twelfth birthday, he was sat in bed with his soccer ball lamp illuminating the room. He still waited every night for his mother to tuck him in. He came last, since Snowdrop now required two bedtime stories in order to sleep soundly. He didn’t mind waiting anymore. He was almost a man, he knew he couldn’t act so pedantic forever, though sometimes he did test the limit. His hazel eyes drifted up whenever he noticed his bedroom door creak open. His mother paused for a moment, clearly surprised he had remained awake for so long, then offered an apologetic smile as she went to sit beside him.

“Sorry, Bash, I meant to be here sooner,” she said, reaching out and carding her fingers through his thick blond curls. They were beginning to darken, thanks to all the time he spent outdoors during soccer practice and games.

“That’s okay,” he said in return. “I don’t mind waiting.”

His mother pursed her lips, presumably in thought, as she shifted herself so they were facing one another fully. “You know… You don’t have to wait forever, Bash,” she told him gently. It took him a moment to process what she was implying, and when he did, he could feel a ball the size of the ones he kicked around all day begin to form in his throat.

“... I-I know.” he managed to say. “I-I mean — yeah, I know. O-Of course I know.”

She chuckled at this, tilting her head sideways. “You’re more like your father than you’d care to admit.”

“Why — why wouldn’t I admit it?” Sebastian asked despite knowing exactly why. His relationship with his father would always be complicated for reasons beyond his comprehension. Try as they might, there seemed to be a dissonance between them that couldn’t be corrected.

“I’m always going to be here for you,” she began as she reached for his hand. “That will never change. You’re my baby boy. But you’re growing up. You’re almost as tall as me now,” she let out a quiet laugh underneath her breath. “I can’t believe it. I think you can’t, either. But… I also think you’re ready to let go.”

Sebastian’s brows knitted together in confusion. “Let go?” he echoed.

His mother nodded along, a solemnity in her features as she squeezed his hand in her own. “Of me. Or, well. Be your own person. You’ve been my little love all this time, my Seb, my baby. I haven’t given you much room to be yourself. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Y-You… You don’t have to say sorry,” he immediately denied. “I’m myself. Aren’t — aren’t I?”

“You are. You can be much more if I let you breathe,” she said and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He leaned into the touch instinctively. “I never did before. It wasn’t fair to either of us.”

For some reason, Sebastian could feel tears prickle on his waterline, which his mother was quick to wipe away. They both hated seeing each other upset. “That doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you,” she assured quietly. “I would never do that. But don’t you want to do things without always wondering where I am while you do them?”

“... I-I don’t know,” Sebastian admitted as he stared down at their connected hands.

“I think you do,” she said. “And it’s okay, Bash. I promise. I’m going to be here no matter what. You don’t have to look for me everywhere. You can look for yourself now.”

Sebastian swallowed dryly as he felt his core shift in that moment. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to step forward, out into the light, and let go of her hand. He didn’t know how the rest of his siblings did it, but they survived, didn’t they? He could, too, if he really wanted. He had to. His gaze lifted and he matched his mother’s with a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips.

“Okay, Momma,” he finally said. “I will.”

His mother smiled at him and blotted away a few stray tears of her own, then moved into bed beside him so she could scoop him up against her chest. He could hear the steady rhythm of her heart. His eyelids fluttered closed and he released a sigh. This wouldn’t be the last time his mother ever held him, but it was the last time he would feel like he’d die if she didn’t. And he still didn’t know how he felt about it. One day, though. He’d have it figured out one day.

Outside the window, a flower bloomed on the branch of a tree.

It was the first day of summer.

She started to sing softly. It was a song he’d known since the day he was born.

#sebastian — character study.#self-para #4.2k words

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mycharacterdump · 1 year ago

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𝐋𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐓 '𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄' 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑 a three - part symphony .

there's a blue light in my best friend's room there's a blue light in his eye i wanna see it shine there's a ship that sails by my window there's a ship that sails on by there's a world under it i think i see it sailing away i think it's sailing miles crashing me by crashing me by.

PART I. BLOOD

Things weren’t always this way.

When I was a kid the clouds didn’t hang like gallows, the summers were swelteringly hot and the winters bitterly cold in the throes of the Mojave but I found salvation in river water and the crackling of firewood in the den, there were bubblegum scented secrets and promises sworn with dirt stained fingers, adventures every corner I turned, I could hear a melody in everything — even the windstorms that battered on our window shutters, even in the arguments my parents had that echoed off the kitchen tiles, even in the deafening silence of night. Music was imbued in every sound and the whole world was a lengthy love ballad that I had the divine pleasure of dissecting.

The day that music died, I was on my bedroom floor trying to decipher my pre-algebra homework and snacking on a pre-assembled food platter that Mom always bought on her way home from work. She could never be bothered to make them herself like other moms at my school did. Every other week there was a food related fundraiser where all the normal mothers in their Suburbans and perfectly ironed collared shirts would strut up the front steps of The Meadows with fresh baked brownies and gingersnaps or some obscure casserole recipe for Thanksgiving, and I would arrive alone to my classroom with a plastic container of sugar cookies.

As much as I resented her for it, the sugar cookies were always a hit with the other kids. Still I wished she would put in more effort. Even if I wasn’t technically hers. I could’ve been, though, I realized early on. If she wanted to, she could’ve claimed me.

Dad was put in the driver’s seat when I turned three. That’s when Mom wanted to go back to work after spending the last nine years raising my older half-brother George and I. Dad tried his best but he seemed damned by the universe in nearly everything he did when it came to homemaking.

I overheard him once tell Mom jokingly that Mercers were cursed. Then I heard her agree.

Anyway, I was rail thin and still had a head full of dark brown hair that I always had pinned up in braids I learned myself, I walked through the front door and bright hazel eyes that hadn’t witnessed a shred of conflict. I was still dressed in my pressed blouse and navy blue skirt that had been my school uniform since I was five years old. I was kicking my legs around, colorful socks adorning my feet after I discarded my Mary Janes, the poster child for well-off, cautiously rebellious children everywhere.

My ears were plugged with a pair of earbuds that I had connected to my iPod. Dad let me buy whatever album I wanted off of our account for my birthday that year, so I wisely chose Avril Lavigne’s Goodbye Lullaby. While What the Hell reverberated against my eardrums I could faintly pick out the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. That was a tell tale sign that George had gotten home from his study group — he and I had a terrible habit of being too rough with everything we touched.

He must’ve noticed I’d stolen the platter, because instead of ducking into his room so he could continue studying (The Meadows was brutal when it came to homework, I realized as soon as I gradated elementary), he barged into my room. I let out a theatric scream with my mouth full of broccoli and scowled at him.

“I could have been naked!” I cried out.

“God forbid I see you in a Hello Kitty training bra,” George snorted dismissively as he went to steal the platter. I held it away from him. “Don’t start, Lyo.”

“I’m still eating,” I hissed at him.

George and I never did get along. He was six years my elder and I think kind of resented me for being born. I took all the attention away from him and, since Dad took the reins, had less of a strict upbringing than he did with Mom. Plus I was just as smart as he was and it didn’t even take me hours of studying to get where I was already. That really pissed him off, despite the fact he had just gotten accepted to NYU Grossman and had taped the acceptance letter over my straight-A report card on the fridge so no one forgot.

Most people didn’t even register that we were siblings, as while we both possessed gangly limbs and a face painted in freckles and the same green-brown hue in our irises, we couldn’t have been more different otherwise. He had a head full of ginger hair that I always weirdly envied as I was given my birth mother’s dark tresses, and he had a paler complexion, skin ghostly white while mine was more sun kissed — which I thought looked better anyway, considering we lived in Nevada. His nose jutted out from the middle of his face and mine was flat in a way that my first grade teacher described as puggy and his eyes were round and puffy and mine were angular with a distinct curve.

We both considered this a blessing, even if I used to pray at night that I would wake up and we’d look more alike so the kids and teachers at school would see me as a real Mercer.

“You’re gonna need to start packing soon,” he chose to say while popping a carrot into his mouth. I narrowed my eyes at him. He didn’t falter. Why would he, after all? I was seventy-five pounds of attitude and a bit of arrogance.

“Why would I do that?” I asked in return. “Are we going to Disney Land or something?”

George chewed his carrot loudly. I flinched but tried my best to focus on the equation in front of me when he didn’t answer me immediately. “No,” he eventually said. “New York.”

“New York?” I echoed. He nodded. “Why are we going there? To see your stupid college?”

“Because Mom’s moving there,” he informed me.

I seemed caught off guard by this. I didn’t believe him at first, naturally. “Bullshit.” I denied.

“Not bullshit,” he said. “Don’t act surprised. You know her and Dad have been fighting since forever.”

I swallowed when he said this. I knew that much was true — Mom and Dad couldn’t seem to last a day without divulging into a petty argument over the most menial things. I had learned a long time ago how to drown it out and immerse myself in my own world. When I was really little I would try and intervene, thinking I could somehow save them from each other, but of course I was too small and my voice didn’t carry and I was always overlooked.

“I’m not going to New York,” I immediately denied.

“... Okay,” George said as he shrugged and left my room with the platter, kicking the door shut behind him.

And that was that. No one was putting up a fight for me. Not like they ever did.

I guess they thought I would feel grateful. It would be Dad and I, how Mom thought it should’ve been since the day I was left on their doorstep. And I wasn’t that upset over it being the two of us, more so that I had every gnawing doubt confirmed that she held no maternal instinct when it concerned me. Not even deep in the crevices of her psyche. Not even in her DNA, like they said most mothers did.

I was holding out hope she would take me in as her young.

In truth, she would’ve eaten me alive.

Dad encouraged me to help George pack — a symbol of good faith, I once thought, before I walked in on Dad collapsed in a puddle of his own tears and I realized that he himself couldn’t stomach seeing his first born and only son off. This time I felt this immeasurable guilt. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that this was all my doing. If I hadn’t been born or if my birth mother had wanted me, none of this would be happening. I had destroyed a family. The one thing my father ever wanted, I singlehandedly dismantled with my hands still too small to fit a human heart in them. How was I meant to fix him? I couldn’t even take his burdens for him, if just for a moment.

We watched Mom and George climb into her sleek Porsche and cruise out of Jadeleaf Court where we had spent my entire life as a family, or else a crude resemblance to one.

The silence between Dad and I was deafening.

Life, as always, carried on. I went to school the next day without pestering George in the kitchen over breakfast. We were territorial about our shared love of Cap’n Crunch Berries. Now the family size box was all mine. It felt odd, sitting alone at the kitchen isle and scooping up the greasy cereal and shoveling it into my mouth without worrying about my older brother creeping up behind me so he could dump the bowl onto my uniform. Dad and I didn’t know what to talk about during the car ride to school. Normally there were interjecting voices complaining at each other that made us laugh to ourselves, because how couldn’t they see how wonderful the world was outside of their material worries? And when I came home at the end of the day, the house was silent. The peace was disturbing.

Kids at school weren’t shy to gossip. Some of them who lived in my neighborhood had witnessed Mom’s car leave and never come back, others heard whispers from their parents who worked with her at the dinner table and soon enough it was public knowledge that we were on our own. I tried not feeling ashamed; I tried embracing it, that we were taking on the world ourselves, but it was difficult when an invisible weight was placed on my shoulders every time I passed a group of people in the hallway and they’d side-eye me like I was some circus freak for not having a mother anymore.

One day, after I’d stepped off the bus (Dad went back to work full-time about a month after they left, so no more pick-ups), I was dragging myself home through the thick heat of the desert and drowning out my surroundings with music when I noticed a car pull up beside me. It was slim and black and there was a Chevrolet emblem reflecting the sunlight off the hood. I was never that interested in cars, but I did recognize this one. It was Mr. Echols’. He taught pre-calc, a class I had undertaken that year ahead of all my peers. I always thought he was handsome; he had short-cut black hair that began sprouting a few shakes of salt on the sides, these piercing blue eyes, and a cocksure demeanor that catered well to an audience of hormonal girls on the edge of seventeen. I also liked the way he would untuck his shirt at the end of lessons on long days and I could catch a glimpse of his lower stomach and happy trail. The boys said it was intentional. I thought they were all stupid.

“Lyonet?” Mr. Echols spoke up as he rolled down his window. I tucked some flyways behind my ear, wondering if he meant me and not some other Lyonet that happened to be walking down the same street as me. But he kept looking at me with his dreamy eyes and I almost sunk into the scathing concrete. Almost. I managed to swallow my quickly forming doubts about my appearance and nodded at him.

“That’s me,” I replied, my whole disposition a bit maladroit.

“What are you doing walking in this heat?” he asked, his mouth slanted as he flashed me a grin and jerked his head toward the empty passenger seat. “Get in, I can drive you home.”

I didn’t have the stomach to tell him that most doctors would conclude I was still too small to be allowed in the passenger seat, obediently rounding the front of the car and climbing inside. I fumbled around for the seatbelt before I could hear Mr. Echols chuckle and reach over, pulling the leather strap over me and buckling me in. I glanced up at him, my hazel eyes, the only thing I inherited from Dad, it seemed sometimes, crossing gazes with his own that I thought had more backlight whereas every time I saw myself in the mirror it looked like my soul had been carved out and I was some uncanny valley replicant of who once was Lyonet Mercer.

“What’s your address?” he then inquired. I gave him the answer in a too quiet voice. “What was that?”

“9236 Jadeleaf Court,” I repeated, a little louder this time.

Mr. Echols nodded and pulled away from the curb. I glanced through the rearview mirror and watched the stop sign I was at shrinking in the distance, the words warping from behind the heat waves.

It didn’t occur to me until he began talking that I still had music playing faintly in my ears. I quickly yanked my earbuds out and crumpled the wires up in my hands and he chuckled in a way that made me feel warm and my guts twist inside out.

“You couldn’t tear me away from my Walk-Man when I was a kid,” he said, giving a fond sigh as he cruised along the streets of Cherry Creek. “I’d rather have died than sit on the bus without any music. Of course, well, I listened to old shit. The Police, Van Halen, R.E.M, etc.”

I smiled at him. I liked hearing people talk about music — it was one of the few things Dad and I had left that wasn’t tainted by Mom and George’s leaving. “I love those,” I told him. He seemed caught off guard.

“Wasn’t aware kids knew them,” Mr. Echols said. He sounded earnest about it rather than condescending, which I appreciated. “Everyone in my classes is listening to Kanye and Jay Z and, uh, Nicki Mirage?”

“Minaj,” I corrected with a laugh that left my lips before I could stifle it. “I — I like them, too. But my Dad only listened to old rock when I was little. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and Sonic Youth and Def Leppard… Some Blondie, too. We would dance around the kitchen to More Than A Woman.”

Mr. Echols sported that charming grin again that made me sink further into my seat. “Wow, a man of taste. Or maybe just an old man like me,”

“I don’t think you’re that old,” I decided to return. Who knew I could be so playful? Nowadays I felt too drained to give anyone the time of day, let alone the sprite I used to possess.

He laughed, then leaned in closer and my eyes widened before he grabbed onto the glove box and opened it. A binder of CDs was revealed and his eyebrows perked up at me encouragingly. I reached my hands forward and slid it out of the compartment, immediately starting to browse his collection. I must’ve been smiling hard because he stuck his hand out to poke at my cheek.

“How’s that for old? Pop one in, we’ll drive a few circles around the neighborhood.”

In the end, we wound up doing three loops around the subdivision while jamming out to Ghost in the Machine. I would headbang and he would laugh and then join in when we came to a full stop. During the songs I did recognize, we would turn them into duets, and it wasn’t until the sun was cresting the horizon that he finally pulled up in front of my house and ejected the CD from the mouth of the player.

I grabbed my backpack up off the floor after unbuckling myself, not needing any help this time, and smiled brightly at Mr. Echols. I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much fun or felt so carefree. Not even my friends could coax laughter out of me most days where as once my voice was my most prized instrument.

“... Thanks, Mr. Echols,” I said at last.

“Rory,” he corrected me. I could feel my heart flutter. We had graduated to a first name basis already? I felt compelled to return the gesture.

“Lyo,” I returned and stuck my hand out cheekily. He rolled his eyes as if we’d been friends for decades and needed no introduction, but he eventually caved and accepted it, shaking my hand gently.

As I pulled my hand away and began to push myself out of the passenger seat, he grasped my shoulder in an attempt to stall me. It worked. Of course it worked. I looked back at him and cocked my head sideways curiously.

He pressed his lips into a thin line before bringing his cell phone out his pocket. “Put your number in,” he said. “For emergencies. I know it’s just you and your Dad now. I wouldn’t want you to feel alone if anything happened to him.”

I blinked in surprise. I wasn’t sure it was allowed, but then again, I couldn’t find it in me to care. I accepted his phone and typed in my number and saved it under the initial L. I didn’t add any emojis. That seemed too risky, at least in my opinion. So did giving him a name that was easily identifiable. I didn’t want him getting in any trouble over a good deed.

I finally left the car and trotted up to the front door, a grin forming on my lips.

From then on out, I was beginning to feel like myself again. Maybe even a little better. I woke up early in the mornings like I used to and made breakfast for Dad and I — even if it was just bowls of cereal — and I would take my time in the shower so I could condition my hair twice to make it look extra shiny and smooth for when I got to school, plus I started paying for my uniforms to be dry cleaned like Mom used to have them done before and I convinced Dad to take me out driving. I wanted to learn as to not have that dependence on the bus anymore, since the kids were still ruthless and took pleasure in tugging on the braids that took me the better half of each morning perfecting and snatching my phone out of my hands to see what I was using as a means of ignoring them all. For private school snobs, they acted like fucking animals.

I was looking forward to the holidays. The entire summer and half of autumn had been the worst time of my life and I knew that with my invigorated spirit Dad and I could make something worthwhile out of what we were given. I didn’t even care if George planned on making time to fly out for Thanksgiving or Hanukkah; I had it covered from here on out. I was ahead of the curve. Acing all my tests, avoiding half the curbs upon rounding street corners, and keeping up with my appearance more than I ever had before.

I was nearly full grown.

PART II. FLESH

The first day of Hanukkah I had received a text message from Rory. We were communicating daily at that point, even on the weekends. He would ask me about school and my homework at first, then it unraveled into him divulging all the gory details about the affairs rampant in the teacher’s lounge, and eventually I would clue him in on the day to day student theatrics that took place in my other classes.

R: Think you can meet me at the end of the street?

I glanced away from my Korean coursework (Dad insisted that I take extra classes after Mom and George left) when I noticed my phone light up and I could feel a smile being woven on my lips.

L: be there in a sec

I rifled through my drawers for some after school clothes and settled on a shorter cut sundress and one of Dad’s hand-me-down cable knits, pulling my hair up into two messy space buns that sat square on the back of my head before tugging on my sneakers and rushing out of my bedroom, practically tumbling downstairs. When Dad called out asking what the fuss was about, I dismissed it with a simple Diggy’s outside. Diggy, or Diego, was a kid I’d befriended in the fifth grade and the only thing that kept us in the same circle was our shared adoration for Dungeons & Dragons. He was a cleric. I was a fighter. We worked well together, I thought. We always had each other’s back.

And it’s not like I didn’t want Dad to know about Rory — okay, maybe I didn’t, because I had enough wits to understand that we’d struck up an unusual sort of relationship but I didn’t know if I had the vocabulary available to explain to Dad that it wasn’t like what met the eye. I was an old soul after all, like he’d said from the time I was a toddler, and that meant mine and Rory’s were the same.

I wrote somewhere it was like we were forged from the same star. The more we got to know each other the brighter we burned together.

I spotted his car from my driveway and sped walk down the street. I kept readjusting my sundress and sweater, hoping one wouldn’t detract from the other as I approached the passenger side and ducked into the seat. Rory was watching me the entire time with a grin I could only describe as fond. It made my heart flutter, admittedly.

“That’s cute,” Rory said at first. My eyebrows leaned inward and he gave a chuckle. “What you’re wearing. You know you don’t have to dress up for me.”

Instinctively my face flushed and I touched my cheek which felt like it was burning. “I was just changing. School makes me sweat.” I blurted, then flinched at my wording. He was amused by it, at least. I kept cursing myself in my head until he reached out and brushed his fingertips across the back of my neck.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he reassured. “I like your hair this way. Let me guess, you appreciate old cinema as well as music?”

“... Is Star Wars that old?” I asked in return with a crooked smile. It took every ounce of confidence for me to summon anything more than awkward, disjointed laughter that I felt bubbling up in my chest.

“Guess not. It’s not technically cinema either.” he joked as he leaned back casually against his seat, his arm still slung over the head rest of my seat.

I glanced around for a moment, then cleared my throat. “So, um… What’s up?” I asked eventually. The tension between us was palpable. I nearly choked on it.

“Oh, that’s right,” Rory said, reaching behind me and pulling out a sloppily wrapped gift box from the backseat. My eyes widened, caught off guard by the sudden gesture. We were giving each other presents now? But it wasn’t even Christmas yet, so maybe I had time— “Happy Hanukkah, Lyo.”

I lit up. He had gotten me something for a holiday he didn’t even celebrate? I beamed down at the present before he coughed into his fist, prompting me to begin opening it. When I tore away the crinkled wrapping paper and slid off the lid, I was taken aback by the sight of his binder of CDs decorated with a bright red bow.

“Holy shit,” I breathed out as I reached to take it out of the box. “Is this—?”

“My personal collection,” Rory confirmed with a chuckle.

I started shaking my head. Manners dictated I did so. “I can’t have this,” I insisted first while still taking a peek at all of the CDs kept in their individual sleeves.

“Of course you can. It’s already yours. Plus, it’ll get much more use out of you these days than it will me,” he said, extending a hand to place upon mine. I could feel every nerve in my body being struck by pulses of adrenaline.

“... Thank you,” I said quietly. I didn’t think it through when I looked up at Rory and saw his blue-blue eyes and stupidly alluring grin and leaned in so I could leave a soft kiss on his pinkened cheek. I froze in place, knowing I must have crossed some invisible boundary that had been set up from the moment we became friends off campus, but while he didn’t respond at first eventually he placed a hand under my chin and tilted my head so our lips could meet.

It was gentle and tentative and everything I could’ve ever asked for out of a first kiss. All the other boys that showed interest in me before were too eager, too obnoxious and not to mention too grimy. Rory was none of those things — he was their diametric opposite, really. He was calm, he paced himself in everything he did, he was mellow and he had this intoxicating scent of cologne that he must’ve knew would drive all the girls in his class insane. It certainly had that effect on me.

He pulled away before I did. Personally, I could’ve kept kissing him until I lost my breath, but then I reminded myself we were still in plain sight and anyone passing by could’ve seen us and been thrown off. The last thing I wanted was some middle-aged mother witnessing us together and crying wolf over a situation I felt I had total control over, so I sunk back into my seat with the binder still in my lap.

“I should go,” Rory said at last. I eyed him for a long time, still feeling the compulsion to bring him into another kiss. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t felt so aware of my surroundings until that very moment. Life had felt like I was wading through a pool of old memories and remnants of what could’ve been ever since Dad and I were left on our own.

“I — I liked it,” I said suddenly. He glanced over at me, seeming more wary than before, and it made me feel guilty. I had instigated it. I might’ve just ruined it, too. “And I like you. A lot. I know it’s strange because of our ages but — but no one’s really cared to try and, y’know, talk to me and even care about my life, like, ever. Ever ever. But I don’t wanna ruin this, either, so if I should stop just tell me—”

“Lyo,” he let out.

“No, really, it’s fine, I’ll go,” I decided as I held the box close to me and went to open the door. Before I could step out, Rory took a hold of my upper arm and kept me seated. I looked back at him. He seemed conflicted; not sure whether letting me go or having me stay would be the right choice. I knew it must’ve been difficult and I wished that burden hadn’t been plaguing whatever relationship we had.

His eyes met mine. Time stilled. “North Shore Inn,” he said. “it’s in Overton. Meet me there on Saturday. Ten o’clock.”

I’d never been to Overton nor heard of the North Shore Inn, but I wasn’t going to reject his offer. It might’ve been the last night of Hanukkah, however I knew that Dad would likely be asleep by then and I could sneak out with relative ease, and I was right. I didn’t know how I was supposed to dress — casual or showy? I lacked any of the tool to put on a face of makeup; Mom had given me the products she wasn’t bringing with her to New York, but those had long since expired and I feared the repercussion would be a horrendous outbreak, so I decided to make up for it by wearing one of my form-fitting tees and the most expensive cargo pants I owned. I covered myself up with an oversized hoodie after assembling my hair into buns and crept downstairs.

I was right. Dad was passed out in the recliner. Unlike most fathers, one glass of wine incapacitated him rather than a pack of beers, which was kind of ironic considering he was born and bred in France. He used to tell George and I he quit drinking for us. George never really believed him, mostly because Mom was hypervigilant every time he held a glass of whiskey at backyard gatherings that he would at best sip at to be polite before pouring it into the bushes. That was the Dad I remember. My Dad. I wondered often if George felt betrayed by him when I was born. Maybe that was why he refused to see him as anything but a pretentious wannabe philosopher — I just saw a man trying desperately to mend the wounds he created in his youth through the only means he knew how: not through hard logic but sensibility.

Not so many men in the world were that gentle and thoughtful. No one, I thought, except for Rory.

I biked across town, my calves straining by the time I had crossed the limit into Overton. After a while of aimlessly cruising around I spotted the glowing sign for the North Shore Inn. I could feel a pit form in my stomach which disconcerted me at first before I pushed it aside and pedaled forward. I ditched my bike near the fence and hoped no one on this side of town would feel compelled to grab it, sauntering around the premises until I stumbled across Room 44.

Holding my breath I stared at the metal numbers. Could this be real? It had to be, as I was more aware of every extremity I possessed not to mention all the organs that pulsed deep within the cavity of my chest. Finally, I raised my fist and left three quick raps on the door. A part of me didn’t expect anyone to answer. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he thought it was too risky, that I wasn’t worth losing everything for. I would’ve understood. It wouldn’t be the first time someone left me behind.

Then, the door came open, and I saw his smile and the whole world began spinning faster on its axis.

He told me I looked comfortable. I felt a blush encroach upon my cheeks so I reached down and tugged my hoodie over my head, revealing the tunic I had on underneath. His expression softened as he examined me; I felt like I was being picked apart surgically, all methodical and calculated. I was still a skinny thing. I found it difficult to eat the past few months, even more so than before. Hanukkah was supposed to have helped, but I felt too nauseous half the time thinking about Rory and the time we’d spent together. It was a good sick, I think. A lovesick.

After scrutinizing me for a while, he invited me to sit beside him on the edge of the motel bed. It was stiff and the duvet was noticeably cheap but I didn’t mind. All I could focus on was him. He reached out and placed his palm against my burning cheek. I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what to do, how to perform best for him — he’d surely had plenty of women, how was I meant to compete?

You can relax, he said, all breathy and full of tension. I obeyed as best I could. I let my shoulders go slack and I could feel my breathing slow, though it was more of an intentional thought than a natural response. Our eyes met for just an instant before his gaze drifted to where my lips were. I’d smothered them in lipgloss as I was heading out the door, so they shimmered and would taste like strawberries. Instead of engulfing me in a heated kiss, he moved his thumb over my mouth to smear away the lipgloss and then pressed his lips against mine.

My eyebrows furrowed but I didn’t protest. How could I? I figured I’d wanted this for longer than even I had realized in that one paralyzing moment. And I was paralyzed. For some reason it felt like I was no longer in control of the situation as he lowered me onto the lumpy pillows and groped parts of me that hadn’t yet been explored by anyone and left dry kisses on my face and neck. I squirmed around at some point, which must’ve upset him somehow as he grasped my wrists and pinned them above my head. My breathing quickened. I felt my heart rebel against me as it rattled in my chest. He must’ve felt it somehow, because he kept saying Relax, relax, relax, but I couldn’t.

I don’t know what happened. I thought I was ready for this. I felt ready until the moment I dreamt of had come to fruition and I could feel his hands all over me and his lips reaching places I had only ever touched in the dark. When I lowered my arms so I could place them on his shoulders in an attempt to ground myself it only seemed to irritate him as he held tightly onto my wrists and pinned them back above my head.

I tried to like it. I wanted to so badly. More than anything I wanted to find the beauty and pleasure in the act. The raw passion and the aching desire. But I just… Laid there. Almost entirely motionless, I stared up vacantly at the ceiling and counted each thrust he made, tears stinging my eyes as I hadn’t anticipated the intense panging below my stomach to radiate throughout my lower half. The room was eerily quiet apart from his grunts and curses he’d say under his breath.

Then, at some point, he lifted himself up from where he’d splayed atop me and he reached for the nightstand. I wondered if he was searching for a condom — everything felt so bare when he shoved himself into me. Instead of any protection he held up what looked to be a vintage Polaroid camera. His fingers unfurled and he pressed his palm against my cheek and whispered some words of encouragement before pressing down on the button. A flash blinded me. I grimaced and turned away. He forced me to look back up at him as he set the camera aside again.

When he finished all that I had left to immortalize it was a deep hollow made in my gut and a soreness between my legs. My vision was still bleary from the blinding flash of the camera. When I could focus on my surroundings again, he had lifted himself off of the bed and began pulling on his shirt and pants. Before I was able to reconcile with the disorienting shift in my emotions he’d asked me if I needed a ride home.

I shook my head. I may have felt weak and unraveled, but I didn’t want to leave my bike behind, nor did I really want to share any space with him alone again.

I biked all the way across Summerlin so I could get home. When I opened the door and snuck in through the kitchen, the time on the stove read 3:03 A.M. Somehow, it’d felt like longer. Exhausted but restless, I trudged upstairs and kicked off my shoes and entered my bathroom. I didn’t switch on the lights as I started the shower. I undressed in the dark. I didn’t want to face myself or see any of the damage inflicted upon me.

I stepped underneath the hot water and let it consume me.

PART III. PULP

I had deleted Rory’s number from my phone. He didn’t seem bothered, as I received no virtual or verbal complaint whenever I’d turn in my assignments at the end of class. Nor did he ever call on me, staunchly ignoring my very existence if it didn’t have to do with grading my work. I was still the best performer in his class. At the end of the semester he awarded me with a certificate, like the kind you’d receive in elementary school for participation or attendance, and told me to have a good summer. I felt the primal urge to beat him until his blood coated my fists and his face was unrecognizable. A puddle of bone and cartilage.

Not everything was so grim. Over Christmas, which I wasn’t certain we’d celebrate as we were missing Mom who was the only Christian (non-practicing, but still) in our household, Dad had surprised me by placing a large box in front of me after I’d opened the rest of my gifts. When I undid the ribbon and looked inside, a wide-eyed, bushy tailed sheepdog pup looked up at me like I’d hung the moon. I started crying. I didn’t stop. Dad came to console me, holding me against his chest as the puppy tumbled out of the box and joined us.

We named him Homer, because he looked wise and all-knowing underneath all his grey and white tufts and also because he ate the donuts that Dad had ordered the day before for Christmas breakfast.

On New Year’s, my Dungeons & Dragons party group chat lit up my phone with notifications about a small get together at Kira’s. She was our monk and also the first girl I had a devestatingly pathetic crush on when we met in the eighth grade. I told Dad I didn’t feel like going because I didn’t want to leave him alone, but he insisted I go since I’d spent the last few weeks locked up in our house.

“See you next year, kiddo,” he said as he pressed a kiss atop my head.

Despite wanting to have a good time, I mostly felt spaced out — just like I had since Hanukkah. I felt like a spectator more than a participant in the festivities my friends had arranged for us; there was a wide variety of food available that I felt no inclination to eat, music blaring from the surround sound system Kira’s parents installed in the basement where we dwelled for our weekly campaigns, and warm conversation about their collective years. I just sipped on the cocktail Kira gave me and sat on the couch, occasionally pitching in when it’d been a while since I spoke.

Eventually, Diego came to sit beside me. I offered him a halfhearted smile and nudged him.

“Everything okay, Lyo?” Diego asked in a way that I know he wanted to sound innocent but was made painstakingly clear he was genuinely concerned. “You’re kinda quiet tonight.”

“... Long day, you know?” I chose to excuse.

“Really? On New Year’s Eve?” he denied with a shake of his head. “You can be honest with me. I’m not gonna go telling everyone like Kira or Bo.”

I swallowed, unsure whether I should be honest or save him the trouble of having to try and mend the permanent wounds that were etched into my very being. “This year just sucked,” I said. “I wanna forget all about it.”

Diego’s lips pressed together into a thin line and he began nodding along. “Well. I get that,” he finally surrendered. “But you know we’ll always be here. Right? We’re a party.”

I forced a brighter smile. “Yeah,” I said quietly and clinked my cup against his.

When walking home after the clock struck midnight, not wanting Dad to wake up alone on New Year’s Day, I thought a lot about the past year of my life. I had lost everything; my family, my pride, my dignity, any hope of a semi-normal life going forward. I was stripped of my humanity and made to be a plaything. A porcelain doll with cracks where my red hot veins once resided under what used to be my living flesh. Maybe even worse — a ghost, whose words spoken could only be deciphered through the methodical sliding of a planchette across a board and whose presence had diminished from a bright spark to a softly flickering candle flame. I didn’t know who I had become. I certainly didn’t recognize who looked back at me in the mirror. My face was sunken in and devoid of color. I’d lose more weight, so all of my clothes hung off me like I was a stiff mannequin. I might as well have been. I had shown no real signs of life since that night at the motel.

Homer greeted me at the door. He was waiting for me. He was always waiting for someone. I suppose we all were; me, my Dad and this dog.

I turned sixteen that February. I was gifted more presents than I anticipated from my friends; a new set of die from Bo, a silver ring in the shape of a star from Kira, and a copy of the Atlas Obscura from Diego with a note that read: FOR WHEN YOU WANT YOUR OWN ADVENTURE.

Mom sent George with a card and a box of chocolates I hadn’t eaten or liked in years. I felt somewhat lucky that my brother was there, even if we didn’t always get along. It was nice knowing they hadn’t forgotten all about me. He picked up my birthday cake (strawberries and cream) and held up a disposable camera to take a snapshot of me blowing out the candles. I tried not to flinch when the flash went off.

George had gotten me a picture frame of our first day attending The Meadows. I was five and he was eleven, and despite the fact I knew he must have held some contempt for me even then he had an arm slung around my shoulders and he held me close to his side. We wore matching white polos and khakis, though we couldn’t have looked more different otherwise. Still, in the certain light we were captured in, I could see our eyes lit up the same kind of greenish-brown.

Then, he handed me a photo of an ultra sound. I glanced up at him in confusion. He was smiling. I hardly ever saw him smile.

“Rosie’s pregnant,” he announced. He sounded more happy than he ever had before, however I could still pick out the tremor in his voice. He must’ve been nervous as hell. “She’s due in September.”

Dad was overjoyed. So was I. I hadn’t expected Dad’s reaction to be so… Intense, though. He couldn’t stop crying. He hugged George so tight that he nearly turned purple. It was in that moment I knew that something was wrong. While Dad was naturally a very emotional being, there was a hint of sorrow in his expression when he pulled away and stroked his only son’s cheek, tear stains evident underneath his tired eyes.

In bed that night I couldn’t find sleep. I tossed and turned underneath my blankets as I thought about Dad and George and even Mom. What had become of us all this past year? Mom was living in New York, the life she had always wanted yet couldn’t quite achieve entirely because there would always be a tether through George to Dad, and at the end of that tether was me, someone she couldn’t escape no matter how far she fled. Then there was George, a budding med student whose future had shifted drastically in an instant, all thanks to a bright pink line. And finally there was Dad, who was himself but not at the same time. Almost like an exaggerated iteration of himself; someone putting on a performance. It was unsettling, if I’m being honest. I wanted him to be happy because it had been so long since I’d seen a genuine spark in his eyes — but I’m not sure I wanted it to happen like this.

I scooted out of bed eventually and trodded halfway down the stairs before I heard muffled conversation. My eyebrows knitted together as I sunk onto the steps, resting my head against the railing as echoing voices chorused throughout the first floor. I could hear distress emitted from George’s lips, and a solemn silence was held for a couple beats before a sob broke out. I could hear it then: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my baby boy, I’m so sorry.

I knew it. I knew something was wrong. What had Dad done?

I crept back up to my room. It felt intrusive to try and insert myself into their conversation and I didn’t want anyone pissed off at me. So I forced my eyes closed and willed for sleep to come, even if I had an endless cacophony of thoughts ringing in my head.

Morning light filtered in through my blinds, bleaching my walls and carpet a soft yellow. I grimaced as the sunbeams struck my eyes and I rubbed the last of sleep out of my vision before pushing myself up onto my elbows. The house was quiet. I wondered if I was the first awake, if my body didn’t let me sleep for as long as I wished it would’ve, but then I heard rummaging and I figured it was the sound of Dad helping George gather his things so he could depart to the airport.

I pulled a cardigan I’d tossed over my desk chair over my head and went to assess whatever damage had been wrought the night before. I braced myself for what was coming. My breath was stifled in my throat as I walked downstairs and glanced around for any sight of Dad or George. Eventually, I wandered into the living room and saw them both sat on the couch. Cups of steaming coffee were left untouched on the center table.

“... Morning,” I spoke up.

“Lyo,” Dad assumed a smile as soon as he noticed me. It wasn’t his natural smile, though. There was a shadow of melancholy encompassing his expression.

George glanced up at me. He looked thinned out. Defeated. More so than he usually did when he’d come home with pages upon pages of notes to study for school. Light didn’t reach his eyes and it made me feel sick.

“What’s wrong?” I immediately asked. I didn’t want to engage in small talk — if something bad had happened, I deserved to know without anything impeding it.

Dad visibly swallowed and motioned for me to sit in the empty spot beside him. I eyed him and George warily as I walked ahead, advancing until I was seated between the two of them. As soon as I sat I could hear my brother inhale shakily.

I can’t remember exactly what happened next. All I can recall is hearing Dad say I’m sick, and then take a breath before elaborating while my world spun out of orbit. Something about cancer. Renal cell, I later discovered. Eight months to live with treatment, give or take. As a result, I couldn’t stay in Summerlin. He couldn’t take care of me anymore. So George would. He and Rosalie, in their new rental in Avalon — I guess that’s where they’d been that whole time. I never cared enough to ask.

I rejected the idea at first, of course. I wasn’t going to let my dad rot while I pretended I could live a normal life across the country. How could I? He had done everything for me. Maybe it was my turn to do the same for him. No, it was definitely my turn. I didn’t care how much I’d endured since Mom and George left. They left. And it was up to me to pick up the pieces of the life we had that they shattered with little remorse.

But then Dad was guiding me upstairs as I fought back and cried. George kept asking me the same questions about what I wanted to take with me and what I could stand to live without until Dad could pack it up properly and send it to New York. I didn’t answer; so he opened up my dresser drawers and tossed whatever he could into my suitcase. I hadn’t used it in years. It still had Hello Kitty stickers plastered on the shell.

I was forced out the front door still in my pajamas when the taxi pulled up to our driveway. I kept reaching out for Dad, expecting him to reach back, but he just watched from a distance as George forcibly placed me in the backseat and tossed my suitcase into the trunk. As the house I had grown up in shrunk in the distance, so did the image of my father, distorted by the waves of heat that encompassed the atmosphere.

I felt worse than I ever had. Worse than when I found out my own blood came from a stranger, or when my flesh was desecrated. I felt like I’d been ground to a pulp.

EPILOGUE

After enduring a hellish four months in Avalon, trying and failing miserably to integrate into the teenage social scene at my new public school, I received a phone call from my Uncle Remy. He was Dad’s older brother who had moved from Chicago to Summerlin so he could watch after him as he got sicker. And he did. He could hardly manage a conversation when I called. Normally the line went quiet and I assumed his drug cocktail had caught up to him and made him drowsy, so I always hung up first. At some point George told me it’d be easier if I gave him space — I almost rung his neck for even suggesting that. Rosalie was the mitigator in our household. I’m sure I would’ve been cast out onto the streets if it weren’t for her.

Uncle Remy said that Dad was deteriorating by the day and that we should all take time out of our schedules to visit. I gulped down the fear and the anger I felt forming in the base of my throat that made me want to cry out and I carried on the message to Mom and George. Of course, Mom made some excuse that Dad wouldn’t like to see her anyway. I tried my best to talk reason with her. He still loves you, I said. He loved the idea of me, Lyonet. He needs his real family. Not someone who pretended to be a part of it. she replied.

She thought she was being the bigger person. I knew she was a coward.

George made up an excuse as well. His daughter, my niece Maia, had been born a few weeks prior and med school was royally kicking his ass. He would try and catch one of the last flights out at the end of the year. Make a holiday of it for himself, the baby and Rosalie. He was being willfully ignorant. He knew that Dad wouldn’t survive until the winter.

I boarded the plane by myself. I watched as we cut through the cloud cover and ascended high enough to where you could pick out faint speckles that were meant to be stars. If I were raised any differently, I’d had held out hope that if we lifted ourselves high enough we would somehow reach heaven — but I didn’t. No one in the faith I once shared with Dad postulated about fancy castles erected in gold and white or some eternal gathering of loved ones around a dinner table full of food and wine. It was about a oneness with God. I felt no such thing on earth, so I didn’t count on it for the afterlife, either.

Uncle Remy picked me up from the airport. We didn’t talk much because in reality we didn’t know each other very well. I could only pick out faint, bleary memories spent at a cabin in Illinois that my mémé and grand-père had bought when they first immigrated to the States, where he would toss me over his shoulder and sprint down the boardwalk before launching me into the stifling cold lake.

He didn’t seem as lively now. Then again, I doubt I did either.

My house didn’t feel like my house when we arrived. I stepped in through the front door for the first time and months and everything felt changed. I was brought up to my old bedroom first since Uncle Remy said Dad was still asleep. When I entered I could feel my stomach bottom out. Old posters still hung crookedly on the pink painted walls and my shaggy rug I got for my eleventh birthday was splayed out underneath an empty desk and chair. There was even a small family of stuffed animals that resided on newly installed shelves.

I sat on the edge of my old bed and put my head in my hands. How was this happening? What had become of my life? I lost everything and I was only sixteen.

Half an hour later Uncle Remy knocked on my door and told me that he’d woken up. It was like I was moving through a pool with how slow each movement I made was, wading endlessly through a vast body of water that could’ve sunk me at any given moment. I eventually made it across the hall to where the master bedroom was. I could hear the soft humming of medical equipment and canned laughter emanating from the TV. When I opened the door, I saw Dad in bed, but it didn’t look like him, not really.

He was deathly pale. There was no more glow in his skin and no light reached his eyes. The beard he had prided himself on growing out for the first time in his life had been shaven, so his face was clean but it didn’t make him look any more like himself. His chest lifted and fell in uneven pants as he tried to catch his breath. It felt wrong looking at him. There was no dignity in this kind of death.

“Lyo?” Dad rasped out. A weak smile twitched in the corner of his mouth and tears began accumulating on my waterline as I saw him. “C’mere, my wild girl.”

I walked across the room obediently and went to sit at his side. “... Hi,” I said, the word strained.

“Good to see you,” he replied — I could tell it took half his energy just to conjure up a sentence when at one point in time you could never get him to stop talking.

“You too,” I returned. I forced a smile. I had no other choice, even if it was evident I was on the brink of falling apart.

Dad lifted his hand up and wiped away the stray tears that escaped. “So grown up,” he noted. There was a sense of awe in his words, like he hadn’t watched me grow from the time I was left on his doorstep. “Just like your mother, I think.”

“... Yeah?” I said as my eyebrows pinched together. I didn’t know what to think of that assessment, as I never knew her. I hadn’t even seen a picture of her. I wasn’t sure Dad had one, anyway. She was an elusive creature from what I had heard.

“Always have been,” he hummed. “I… I wanted to tell you about her. Before. But… I didn’t know how.”

I shook my head at this. “You don’t have to say anything,” I assured him. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” he insisted, pressing his lips into a frown. “You deserved answers. You deserved more.”

“So did you,” I returned as I leaned my cheek into his open palm. A saddened smile pulled on the corner of my mouth while we gazed at each other, drinking one another in for what I knew in my blood and in my bones would be the last time.

Dad stroked my cheek gently. Always gentle, always kind. Always an angel, never a God. “I got everything I wanted.” he said, and he sounded very decided on that matter, so I didn’t argue.

We sat in silence for a while. I couldn’t resist reflecting on my life in Summerlin that was coming to a close. With Dad gone, I would have no reason to be there anymore. All of my friends were planning on spreading out across the country to attend different schools and soon enough we’d fall out of contact and never see each other again. No other family lived there. What I had left would be returned to ashes and dust.

As Dad began waning in and out of consciousness, he mustered up the strength to ask me one last thing. “Sing,” he said, losing his breath after.

I swallowed and nodded, looking down at our touching hands as I beckoned the words out of my throat.

She wore faded jeans and soft black leather She had eyes so blue they looked like weather When she needed me I wasn't around That's the way it goes, it'll all work out There were times apart and times together I was pledged to her for worse or better When it mattered most I let her down That's the way it goes, it'll all work out It'll all work out eventually Better off with Him than here with me Now the wind is high and the rain is heavy The water's rising in the levee Still I think of her when the sun goes down Never goes away, but it all works out.

He died two days after I left.

Rosalie told me to go to homecoming after the funeral, which was a horrid affair I’d rather not detail. I wanted to scream at her: I don’t want to dance and make friends. I want to be in the ground. I want to be dead. But I knew she’d just tell my psychiatrist what I said, and I was convinced in my rampant paranoia he was out to get me, so I stayed quiet and let her dress me up in her old sheer red dress she never got to wear to prom and decorate me in a thin layer of makeup so I wasn’t too overwhelmed.

The dance sucked. I never attended homecoming or any other school sanctioned events at The Meadows, always forfeiting them in place of a Dungeons & Dragons session at Kira’s. Somehow I got caught up in a crowd that shuttled me to an afterparty. I knew I didn’t have much of a choice in going; Rosalie would be worried if I came home too soon.

So I drank the bad Kool-Aid cocktail made in a punch bowl and swayed my hips to the music that blared overhead. It wasn’t until a taller, broad-shouldered male approached me that I felt dwarfed for the first time since — well, since Rory, who had never even attempted to contact me after the whole town found out about Dad’s cancer and subsequent passing.

He spoke at me with alcohol laced breath and I endured it because I didn’t know any better. Even though I felt a deep urge to knee him in the dick and escape, I let him say whatever he wanted and think I was impressed, which apparently was an easy feat, as soon enough his hands were on my hips and we were dancing together and I was a bit too tipsy to care what happened next.

I half-expected for him to escort me upstairs or even shove me in a bathroom and take me there, but just as he began hitching up my dress I could feel it. The pills I’d taken from the clique of stoners I befriended at the dance had caught up to me and were beginning to trigger the first seizure I’d had in years. I slid out from underneath the stranger’s grip and he started loudly complaining, but I was lucky enough that he didn’t feel the need to trail after me.

I stumbled through the crowds and then the kitchen, the harsh overhead lights momentarily blinding me before I located a closet and tripped inside, praying for some sort of relief. It didn’t last for long, because someone began knocking on the door as soon as it was closed.

“You alive?” the person asked.

“Yes!” I returned, wanting them gone just so I could wither away in peace. “Just — fuck off!”

The door opened then and as I looked up at the person I could feel the size of my heart increase by tenfold. My whole body was lit aflame. I had never felt anything like it.

I could remember striking up a small conversation with him before I lost consciousness, but my final thought had been how, for the first time since Dad and I were left on our own, I could hear a symphony.

there's a world outside my doorstep flames over everyone's heart don't you see them shining? i want to hear them beating for me i think i hear them waves crashing me by.

#lyonet — character study.#self-para #10.2k words

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