Oddball

Chapter Five

MICAH

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Dead. He's dead. Gone. He's gone. My brother. Dead. Gone. Dead. He's dead...

I might as well be dead too, for all the shit I don't give about anything anymore. I can't face my family. Toby's wide innocent, tear filled eyes. My mother's trembling hands. My father, who hasn't left the house since. We all might as well be dead.

Because Sam is dead.

Because of Peter.

Because no one noticed him breaking, inside out.

Because no one cared.

And now he's dead.

And it's our fault.

Our fault he's cut his wrists, his forearms. From the base of his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Intention, not attention.

Our fault.

OUR FAULT!

'Shut up idiot' I mutter to myself. 'It's too late to beat yourself up now.' I groan and roll over, burying my face in my pillow. Go away sun. Go away daylight and morning and all the things that go with it. Go away! Obviously, it doesn't go away. Of course, why would everything stop for one teenage boy grieving for his suicidal brother? If that memorial was anything to go by... STOP! Just stop thinking. Why can't I just stop thinking? Why?

I sit up and run a hand through my unkempt curls. I need a shower. Everything seems better after a shower right? Wash away worries, scrub away problems. Or something...I step into the bathroom and carefully lock the door behind me. Stripping off my clothes, I try to focus on not think about Sam. I step into the shower and turn the hot water on hard until it burns my skin. Properly awake now, I wince as I turn the cold on. Stupid, adjust the water first, duh.

I scrub my skin until it stings. Shampoo drips into my eyes, soap fills the scratches on the back of my neck and sides. It hurts like a bitch, but it's something real you know? Something to focus on, to ground yourself with. Max and the others wouldn't understand why I dig my nails into my skin, scratching it away until it bleeds. Safer than cutting, and after Sam, well... I don't ever want to use a knife or a razor or whatever he used. I rinse, shut the water off, dry and dress in record time. I need to get out. I feel trapped in grief and self pity and depression and repression and anger and fear and... Oh my god. Shut. Up!

I practically run out of the house. Past Sam's bedroom, untouched and still stained with his blood. Past my mother, who is trying to get a screaming Toby to eat again. Past my father's office where he is staring at the wall blankly. Past the front door, down the path. I reach for the gate and hesitate. Something's wrong.

A shadow in the hedge.

A quiet sniffle.

I glance along the fence. I stiffen at the sight. My insides freeze up. It's just like Sam. When I found him, half hanging out of his wardrobe. The puddle on his carpet. The trail. the smell, the colour. The drip, drip, drip like a leaky tap. It's almost the same...

Blood

There is blood on the fence. I move towards it, as if in a trance. Drip, drip, drip. Why am I going towards it? Last time I saw this much blood, I found a body. My brother's body.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I don't want to find a body. I can't find another body. How cruel can the world get?