The Cascading Waves of Caden Lee

22

CADEN LEE

Walking into my small, run-down kitchen two days later, I spot my dad hunched over our tile countertop. He's drinking a glass of orange juice, and I find myself subconsciously eyeing his hands.

They're shaking, subtle enough to where it's nearly unnoticeable to the untrained eye, and I hate the way my eyes seem to linger on them far too long; a lump in my throat that I can't seem to swallow down.

"Good sleep?" He asks, voice slightly hoarse. I nod, lips thinning as I try to ignore his presence altogether.

We're silent after that, tense and uncomfortable, and I must have been rummaging in the pantry longer than I thought because Jessie comes into the kitchen doorway moments later. Me and Jessie aren't necessarily best friends, but we're still siblings, and if there's anyone we have a shared mutual hatred for, it's my father.

She reaches into the pantry as I step aside to make room for her, setting a bowl onto the counter as she pours a generous amount of Captain Crunch into the bowl. I decide to just settle for a bagel, grabbing the bag of them and pulling the two donut-shaped halves apart.

After I drop the bagel halves into the toaster —which hasn't been cleaned since we got it, because apparently you're supposed to, but none of us know how you even wash a toaster—and push the lever down. Jessie coughs into her elbow; scoops some cereal into her mouth. The only noise in the room being dads heavy breathing, Jessie's spoon clacking against her bowl, me getting cream cheese out of the fridge.

The bagels pop out of the toaster, and I toss them onto a paper plate. The burn leaves a dull tingle on my fingertips. "You guys excited for school today?" Is my dads attempt at a civil conversation. Jessie side-eyes me; I shrug back at her.

I want nothing more to just ignore him in hopes of him going away, but my consciousness stops me. I'd feel too guilty. So I shake my head slightly and say, "Not really."

Dad looks at Jessie expectantly, and she rolls her eyes and responds in a huff, "It's school, Dad. Nobody likes school." I nearly say except for elementary schoolers but I just spread my cream cheese onto my bagel instead. Elementary schoolers only like school because they're coloring with crayons instead of trying to figure out the cotangent of a triangle.

"Yeah, fair," he murmurs dejectedly, and I make my way to my room so I don't have to see the look on his face. Just remember what he did, I think, remember what he did to all of us.

It helps only slightly. I want to escape his presence, how it eats away at me even when we're apart, but I don't know how. I try to ignore the voice whispering in my ear, "or do you?", and slip my shoes on instead. Ignore the ache in my fingers when I slip them into the backs of my shoes in order to fit my foot in. Ignore the way the bottle sitting in my sock drawer seems to call out to me.

Ignore, ignore, ignore. It's what I've always been best at.

"Jessie!" I call out through the long, winding hallway, "I'm getting in the car, come on!" This is a recent change. Before, Mom would drive Jessie to the middle school and I would drive myself over to the high school, but the bitter taste of resentment sits on my tongue. And when I noticed Jessie seemed to feel the same way, I offered her rides to school until we don't feel so...indignant at her.

It's a foreign feeling; hatred directed my moms way. And if I were being honest, I don't trust Jessie to not shove my mom out the car window and run her over if she were to drive her to school.

I can feel the needle-sharp claws of selfishness dig into my skin; Clutched tightly around my neck and resting it's heavy weight onto my shoulder.

I shouldn't be mad. It's not fair. But the anger boils beneath my skin, and letting the very man who shattered our family back into our home, was a line she knew not to cross. If he was the hammer we were the glass, and all she wants to do is sweep the shards of our past under our cheap rug.

The airs beginning to grow warmer; the bitter chill of winter fading away as spring starts to seep in. I'm not sure I've ever had a favorite season, no matter the time of the year I seem to always find something to complain about.

Winter? Too cold; Runny noses and wet-sounding coughs seem to fill each and every room.

Spring? It's so stormy; boring and you're left with the giddy anticipation of summer. Months and months of daily routine, no breaks, chasing the promise of summer like the rainbow after a storm.

Summer? Paradise on paper; you spent months fantasizing of the months contents, yet you only end up spending the days burrowed in bed. Going outside only results in sweat-stained shirts and a desperate need for the nearest source of hydration.

Fall? School starts; you're left helpless with the knowledge that you're not even a quarter into the school year, you've barely even started.

Pessimistic isn't an accurate word to describe me, but I would be lying if I said I didn't typically see the negative before the positive. I think we all do; some are just too afraid to admit it.

Jessie comes blundering down the driveway, hauling herself into the car soon after. We don't talk, not really, I just confirm she has everything and she nods breathlessly. She always finishes getting ready for school in the mornings with approximately 30 seconds to spare. I want to ask her how she does it, a whole 15-step morning routine in 45 minutes, but I'm not sure she even knows herself.

I drop Jessie off at the school and watch her make her way to the front entrance. Stalling just a little. Nausea bubbles in my stomach at the thought of going to school. Lately it's seemed so daunting, showing my face to the world. I dont know why. Even when I get into my moods, lose my grip on reality and float through the days, I've never seen life as this much of a chore.

I leave eventually, and when I stroll into class and slump into my desk chair I'm 17 minutes tardy. If I were still the same guy I was last year I would've spent the rest of the hour fidgeting in my seat at a newly acquired tardy. Would've worried about my mom seeing it and grounding me, knowing how strict she is with attendance.

But I'm not. And I don't know what changed, how I grew into someone unrecognizable or even why I did. Call me dramatic, it's not like I'm injecting heroin in a shady alleyway, but I never would've swallowed a pill that wasn't Advil a year ago. Never would've even considered it.

And now all I can think of is changing even more. Just letting go. Go big or go home; If I'm going to shift into a stranger it won't be half-assed. No point in going back if I'm already this far in.

I float throughout the rest of the day. My feet never touch the floor, not even when Scarlett smiles at me at our locker before lunch, or when Asher face plants in the hallway on our way to class.

I pick Jessie up from school, ask her how her day was, nod and smile when she says it was good. I'm in my room now, laying in bed. Staring. My fan twirls round and round, never-ending, I'm almost mesmerized by it.

A knock; it's my mom. How was your day? I don't answer. A sigh, then the sound of socked feet shuffling downstairs.

Eventually I make my way to the bathroom to empty the ache in my bladder. I'm not quick enough while leaving the bathroom to miss the glance of my reflection in the mirror; A stranger stares back.

Nobody texts me, it's something I've gotten used to in the past few weeks. The distance between me and my relationships grows each and every day, and I sit helpless and dazed as I don't do anything to stop it. I could text them first, rekindle the bond we once had, but typing a message right now seems as impossible as climbing Mount Everest.

I hear mom and dad laughing downstairs.

I don't think I'll ever know what pushed me to do this. My parents happiness? The selfishness running through my veins?

But I find myself not caring anymore when I shuffle through my drawer and clutch an orange bottle. Digging through the contents and placing the round pill on my tongue, I don't bother gulping down water to swallow it.

The taste is bitter on my tongue.

But the pang of my chest from only moments before fades away before I can focus too much on the muffled laughter from downstairs.

Mom never came to check on me until the next morning.

Fucking Traitor.