yours.

[14] Jasper

I'm not going outside today. I can't. Because if I do, Miles will join me, and I can't really face him right now. I need to get over him, and seeing him every day truly isn't going to help with that.

Unfortunately, there's not much to do in my home -- for me at least. The walls of my room are still bare, devoid of the shelves of books and games I owned in our last residence. The only things here to look at, really, are my bed, its plain white sheets neatly made, and my closet, ever organized by colour and season. But nothing to hold my attention.

I venture out of my room and glance around the upper level of my house, wondering how I can spend the next nine hours or so. My eyes catch on the closed door to Max's room, and I avert them quickly. No use digging into the past.

Trudging down the stairs, I find my way to the kitchen, wondering why the space still doesn't feel like home. I've grown accustomed to the rooms and each of their unique scents, and I'm now able to sleep comfortably in my room, but the house still only feels like a temporary living space. Which, I suppose, it is.

"Good morning, Jasper."

I turn, surprised to hear the voice. My mother is seated on the couch in the living room, staring through a window as she nurses a mug of tea between her palms. The morning light slants across the room, dividing her features in a sharp contrast of light and shade. "Good morning, Mum."

"The sky is so clear today," she observes, and I glance out of the window beside her. All I can see from here is the brown of our neighbours' fence. She comes to look at me, laying a hand on the cushion beside her. "Would you like to sit with me?"

I oblige without hesitation, taking a seat beside her and resting my head on her shoulder.

"How are you adjusting?" she asks, her voice tired.

"To... what?"

She lets her head rest against mine. "The house. The neighborhood." She shrugs lightly. "Everything."

My eyes drift shut at the thought of Miles. "Fine, I guess."

She sighs, her mind already elsewhere. It never remains in one place long enough to carry an entire conversation with her. "Your father is gone on errands," she says idly.

I feel the tension leave the muscles in my shoulders. "When will he be back?"

"Not for a while." I hear her take a sip of her drink as my eyes crack open. When she sets her mug back down, I know her mind has shifted again. "He means well, you know," she tells me, her tone soft, cautious. "He just... doesn't know how to show it."

I lift my head and stare at her in stunned disbelief. I can't help but think of the countless nights he's wasted drinking in solitude instead of spent with his family, of the needless glares and reprimands he's forced onto me. Of all the drunken-rage-induced bruises he's given me over the past two years. "Are you serious?"

My mother glances over at me, surprise lighting her brown eyes. Like she's already forgotten I'm sitting with her. "Of course. He really does love you--"

I push to my feet, chuckling in incredulity. "I'll believe it when I see it."

My mother watches me distantly, then turns to face the window and loses herself in the sight, her gaze unfocusing as she retreats to her mind. Her escape, where she doesn't have to face the harsh truth of reality -- that her abusive husband and pathetic son are all she has left.