Sharp Tools

Chapter 9: After

Clove's POV:

It's been almost a month since my brother's funeral, and life has become like clockwork. I wake up, help Carter and Crystal get ready, and we go about our day. We rarely see our father these days. He's usually either at work in the stone or getting drunk at the bar. The few times I catch him, it's like a man I can barely recognize. He sports heavy eye bags, resentful looks, a deep scowl, a smell of stale beer, and an attitude that seems to scare even the birds in our backyard. There are a few marks of his presence. Whether it's a few dirty dishes in the sink, mud-stained clothes waiting to be washed, or a few empty beer bottles on the table, these objects help me discern whether he's alive or not.

Mom seems to have given up on him. Whenever he yells are her, she stays silent. Whenever he comes home full inebriated, unable to even talk, she says nothing. Whenever me or the twins ask about him, she always shuts us down. I used to think she didn't care, that my father's behavior, the man she fell in love with, had no effect on her whatsoever. But I few days ago, I came across her journal.

I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, but I can't. Everything's changed now. No, everything's broken. Dallas is dead. Mason is gone. My sweet Mason, is gone. No matter how hard I've tried to bring him back. And God knows I've tried, but what else can I do? Clove and the twins are relying on me to survive. But I don't think I can do this anymore. We're dying, and with Mason spending every last dime of his paycheck on booze, I barely have enough money to put food on the table. It breaks my heart when they tell me they're still hungry, or they miss their older brother, or they ask why their dad isn't around. I think Clove understands, but I beat myself up for letting her grow up this fast.

She's eight years old. Too young to accept hunger, death, and violence at her age. I miss the girl who laughed at my jokes, helped me cook dinner in the kitchen, and sang songs my half-sister taught her.

I miss the old me too, Mom.

Speaking of my little half-sister, she's gone too. That day, the day of my son's funeral, was the last time I saw her. I don't know where she is. According to the rumors, she, like Mason, is drinking her pain away. I want to be angry at her, but how can I be? She's hurting just like the rest of us.

The day of the funeral was also the last time I saw Aunt E. I thought she would come back, but she never did. Why? I don't understand. She said she loved me. Loved us. So how could she leave?

I want to be like them. To have the option to take no responsibility and get drunk every day, but I can't. I have to take care of my kids. To ensure their survival. But every single day, it feels like I'm drowning. Because I still cry myself to sleep at night. I still struggle to breathe when I pass his old room. And I still can't accept that my once innocent Clover, is gone.

There's a lot of scribbling and crossing out after this sentence. I've tried to decipher it, but I still don't know what it says. But at the bottom of the page, my mother made one thing very clear.

I have to go now. I have to go. I have to go. I have to go. I don't think I can handle this much longer.

"Please don't leave, Mom." I whisper to her every night as she tucks me in. "I don't want you to leave either."

And every night, she always pulls me into her arms and responds with, "I'm not going anywhere, my lucky Clover. I'm not going anywhere."

And every night, after she leaves, I stare at the ceiling. "Until you do."

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I wake up one morning to hear rustling coming from the kitchen and one glance at the clock has me confused. It's not even 7. Mom and twins are usually asleep, so who's that. I creep out of bed, tiptoeing to not make any noise. I quickly pass my desk, making sure to grab my knife off the edge and slightly open my bedroom door. Then I listen. The intruder's breathing heavily, so I know it's not Mom, Crystal, Carter.