Our indelible pasts|✔

fifty - kiana

I TAKE A huge gulp as I sit back down with Bryson.

This entire week, I've been drowning in my own problems, barely being able to gasp for some air. I need out, even if it's just for a few moments. Even if it means focusing on someone's problems other than my own.

As selfish as it is for me to do this, as I keep my eyes trained in front of me, I decide to ask Bryson, "Enough about me, are you okay? I uh...I saw you earlier." I refer to when I found him smoking just a few minutes ago, hands pressed against his face in panic.

He stays quiet for a while, just taking drags of his now short cigarette. I stay quiet too, allowing him to decide what to tell or what not to tell me in peace. But for my sake, I'm kind of hoping he chooses to tell me.

"I have a sister." He finally speaks up and I look over at him. "At least, I hope I still do."

I look back in front of me, trying to push the guilt of asking away, silently waiting for an elaboration to clear up my confusion.

"I grew up in the foster system, you know, jumping from home to home. Luckily, my sister and I managed to stay together for quite some time."

As he explains himself, the angry conversation I remember him having with a woman all those weeks ago at the human agency back in New York resurfaces in my head and starts to make more sense. But for his sake, I hope the conclusion I've already come to isn't true because that would just be too heart-breaking.

"But, eventually the crappiness of the foster system caught up to us when I was 16 and she was 13." His voice is so smooth and quiet, a complete contrast of what he's about to tell me. "She got fostered into a home that didn't want more than one kid. I...I haven't seen, or spoken to her since the day she drove away with that family."

I feel my heart sink when Bryson confirms my assumption. I cannot even begin to imagine what it's been like to have zero clarity about his sister. That's just too much to go through. I don't know if I'd be able to live with myself if Kayla and I went through the same thing. At least I know that she's dead. I don't like it. But at least I know. Bryson doesn't know anything.

"I have no idea whether she's..." He trails off, voice breaking and I can't stop myself from looking at him with a face showing nothing but pity. I can't help it.

I watch as he battles with himself, clenching his jaw, unable to say the words, fighting the tears that are fighting to get out. After about a minute, he continues. "I don't know if...if she's in a happy home, living a great life or...she's somewhere..." He trails off again and tries to find the words and strength in the now short cigarette as he takes yet another long drag. A shaky breathe leaves his mouth before he speaks again. "She could be somewhere, suffering and I'm not there to help her. Or even worse, she could be-"

"Don't say it." This time I'm the one that stops him. "You can say anything, but not that. I refuse to believe that she's dead. I refuse to believe that the world is that selfish."

Only it is, I should know. But I don't say that.

Bryson shakes his head before burying his face in his hands. I hear him sniffle and I rub his back awkwardly not knowing what else to do. I've had to deal with two crying men today, me and providing comfort don't go hand in hand. This is an overwhelming pattern.

You'd think that my studies in psychology would help me out here a bit but this degree I'm pursuing is deeming to be useless here tonight. But then again it's probably the fact that I've drunk a lot...yeah, let's blame it on the alcohol.

"Can I?" Bryson gestures to the bottle in my other hand.

Nodding my head, I hand it to him and watch it as he presses the bottle against his lips, taking a long swig.