Raven's Lullabies

From the Other Side of the Rose-Petaled Wall

Tears fall freely inside the living room like the continuous flow of water in a nearby river: slow, sad and endless.

Mom couldn't stop herself from letting her tears flow. Perhaps the thought of not being able to do anything shook her more than ever; that being only there by my sister's side, unable to extend her hand to help her survive tonight's repeated madness, set her dying inside.

Dad, on the other hand,was not crying at all. Rather, he's just there, sitting close beside her in silence. He was holding on too strong to the optimistic view that my sister will survive, though the fact still remains in his soggy features that he was disturbed, perplexed and annoyed. Afterall, when his child is in trouble, isn't it the father's obligation to save his daughter?

I watched them both hold on to each of my little sister's hand. She was already laid down on the couch she sat on a couple of hours ago. The blood tears from her eyes had stopped falling after she had fallen on Peter's arms, and Mom had already wiped them out from her soft, white cheeks. In truth, I would have the inclination to stay by her side, but father was against it, saying that the possibility of being dragged into the "forest" just by touching her would just bring catastrophic results. By that, Peter and I were always left to stay away and watch at the sidelines, right beside the doorstep.

It made me feel like a wallflower inside a household of ruined hope and lingering despair.

Even so, I felt that this was the norm we always live by; there was never a gaiety lovely home that makes us all feel safe and secured, where Peter and I laugh our heads off, while mom and dad smile to themselves after seeing our little sister come back in the living room with her hair disheveled and her face, as well as her clothes, covered in dirt after tilling the soil in her garden. We were simply surviving the day pretending to be a joyful family, whilst in the night, we soaked ourselves in the horror of her nightmares, desperate for her survival, though the fact remains that the miasma of her dreams consumes the belief that we were once the pure and beautiful family she has.

Just by looking at the dim-lit living room, the worried expressions etched upon my parents faces, and the shrugged shoulders that allowed itself to be claimed by the intoxicating breath of the despairing midnight air, I can't say we were anymore.

It was hard to keep staring, but I continued to do so. In our present situation, I could silently feel the creeping madness that follows our family now and then. It stares back at us when nightfall comes, and in my case, I always felt the lingering anger seeping through me, together with failing hope. Why am I useless in these situations?

I left the living room in silence and went towards Peter's room. The door was open and I found him standing next to the wall, his black hair covering his face as he stares numbly at his pale, trembling hands. The stains of my sister's blood haven't been washed from his hands, and mother, nor father, could not urge him to clean it, even during the turmoil that occurred because of his contact to my sister in her trance-like state.

Feeling the dread of this household, I took the liberty of taking a towel and dipping it with water. I came up to him, kneeled.

"Peter," I muttered. The sound of my voice was like the coarse, heavy tone of a ghost's voice.

He was surprised at first, but after recognizing me, he loosen a bit. "Lisa," he said as he turned to gaze at me.

Looking at him sent chills down my spine. For the first time, the despair cling unto me stronger than ever, and left me churned up inside

Peter's face was pallid, as if life had been sucked out of him. His brown eyes were dilated and the bright wide grin he always wear was gone from him. He looked at me with a face so expressionless; blank and dull it was that it's hard to accept he was the funny, mischievous guy I always get annoyed at.