The Aftermath

Resolutions

(noun) a firm decision to do or not to do something.

That dismal January evening it did not rain; not in the way America wanted it to. Rather a thick, cold fog shrouded her small hometown so that streaks of sparkling light shot up into the sky, fading from view as they ascended, only for their colourful spectacle to be hidden from sight.

Yet, after it all, America still couldn't understand how some people could be so wasteful. What was the point of going through all of that effort and expense only for it to be pointless?

That's a bold judgement coming from you.

And for the first time in days she couldn't help but to agree with herself; some sacrifices can be payed in currencies much more valuable than gold. Or whatever Silvia taught her the Illean dollar was weighed against.

Her thoughts seemed to ricochet around the room. Bouncing off cluttered walls crammed full of old photographs of past lives and hurriedly escaping shadowed alcoves.

It truly was a bizarre New Year.

This realisation would not leave America as she recalled the annual parties she used to perform at.

Parties where she fought to sing above the sound of shrieking fireworks. The impossible feeling of standing on a stage in large, lively halls; completely invisible.

A glass would fall from some general's hand. A guilty child would blush and dart back into the crowd, reflections of amused grins bouncing off of cheap party decorations. The kind that groups of girls would tear from the wall and fashion the strings of shiny plastic into bracelets long before the night was ending.

Whereas now, each distant explosion seemed to echo through the house and tickle the roaring fire which cast a sinister glow across the remaining Singers.

America returned to her vicious cleaning; the torn rag pushed, pulled and dragged against the chipped tile flooring until it had oozed all of its soapy reservoir into the cracks in the grout. Her worn jeans melted into the potent solution, discolouring where her knees slid over the wet floor.

A strand of her hair fell out from its braid, so that when she pushed it back behind her ear water trickled down her bare wrist

The televisions' glow reflects off the olive green walls, projecting a slideshow of lively cities all over the country before switching to a grand shot of the palace. Without the highly anticipated display it looked intimidating; sinister.

And in the space of a couple of seconds, May launches herself towards the remote, spamming the off button. The tv turns off and on and off again, throwing the room into dim darkness -besides the occasional rogue hue of a firework. May apologises repeatedly into the gloomy shadows, supposedly to no one in particular. All four of us know who. Except for Gerald who grumbles something unintelligible, engrossed in some book he must have received for Christmas.

America wished she could say the rest of the evening flew by. But in reality, she escaped to her room long before midnight. And fell asleep long after - with a plan.

Nobody was awake when she left the house on Kenna's old bike. There was a strange beauty to her situation; the sky was an energising, swirling grey that perfectly contrasted the crumbling tarmac. The way that the peeling cobalt blue paint fought against the rotting iron handlebars.

A stack of posters in her tote waved at the passing neighbourhoods; the occasional sheet catching to the wind.

America continued to pedal at a comfortably brisk pace until the point where her legs began to burn slightly; she had spent the last week hibernating with the rest of her family. However this morning marked the end of lying about feeling sorry for herself, yes, this morning marked the start of a new chapter. The sequel in which the forgotten side character makes something of herself.

Eventually, America reached her destination - the lazy suburb of Province Crossing- full of excessively large houses and mini mansions.

Within the time it took for the sun to rise; she'd pinned a handful of posters to community boards, posted countless flyers in mailboxes and through doors and gave a dozen to a group of particularly friendly dog walkers. America suspected that within the next few days she should receive enough responses to work part-time as a private music teacher. Twos and Threes will throw their money at anything; especially to better themselves.

This is what America had resoluted late last night in the privacy of her bedroom - to better herself and her family's situation. It's what Dad would have wanted and it's not like Mom can provide for us in her current state. And little May... Although an overwhelming amount of interest had materised surrounding her art, would be that - overwhelmed.

Mom still wasn't awake when she arrived home, but May was. Except this was May. Despite being a social butterfly she struggled to show strong emotions; especially anger.

"Ames you can't just leave like that. Not that early in the morning. Not without telling Mom or me." Her cute scowl and pouted lips made it hard to take her seriously, especially paired with her soft tone.

"I was out getting a job, May. A job." Truthfully America didn't feel like arguing right now, everything would be fine if they didn't. Gerald seemingly felt the same and got up from the sofa taking his book with him; clearly eager to escape.

"A job," she pauses in thought trying to calm herself down. "A job," this time she sounds more sure, certain. Like she's convinced herself. "A teacher, as in a Three?" You couldn't deny the slither of excitement in her voice. A Three's career prospects are worlds away from a Five's.

"As a teacher of music," America tread lightly towards the sink and start to wash up last night's dishes. "I want to help May, help us get out of this mess that we've found ourselves in." She gestures wildly, sending bubbles of soap flying across the kitchen.

"You don't have to go out and work just yet Ames, it's important to take a break and... I've seen the checks they sent. It's more than enough to live on comfortably for the next couple of years. You should rest, heal. It's what Dad would have wanted."

"Dad's not here, May." America spits, her own conscience flinches. She regretted that; but still continued. Words tripping over each other. "I don't know when you're going to realise that. Somebody has to provide, we've got more than 'the next couple of months' to worry about. You've got to face reality, May. And the cold, harsh reality is.... It's that there is no prince, I mean knight in shining armour to save any of us. Not you or Mum or Gerald and especially not me."

If she is devastated she doesn't show it. She only sniffles, wiping her teary eyes. It secretly kills America seeing her like this, she forgot how fragile she is. With everything she has put up with since Christmas.