the long way home [ h.s. ]

Twenty One | 21

twenty one | 21

☓

On Monday morning, I stand in the middle of the kitchen silently. My feet are cold; my sweatpants and tee shirt hang loosely. I let my hands wander aimlessly over the countertop, with no purpose whatsoever.

I don't want to eat.

I couldn't even if I tried.

I've been this way for fifteen minutes-- empty minded and hollow on the inside. No matter what I do, I can't seem to bring myself out of this strange state. I fill each passing minute by looking around at whatever's nearby.

The clock.

The toaster.

The refrigerator magnets.

Things that don't matter; things that don't breathe, don't touch, don't feel.

I can't trust myself going back upstairs. Once I get dressed and ready for school, I'll end up in Thomas' doorway, watching him dream.

In slumber, he has no thoughts of the day ahead. He can't predict if he'll come home with a big grin on his face, or with tears hanging on the edge of his jaw.

He can't feel the isolation that his tormentors inflict on him.

His heart hasn't yet been mishandled.

No, in his morning sleep, Thomas is perfect and peaceful. He lays spread-eagled under his pale blue sheets, wisps of blonde hair resting on the pillow case, and he doesn't have a care in the world.

Last night, I dreamed of Harry.

It wasn't a single dream; it was many consecutive dreams, and although each one was different, they were all about him.

Harry.

I can still feel his arms around me; his breath against my neck, and the violent way his chest shook. And I'm all torn up on the inside.

He doesn't deserve a single fragment of the pain.

And he carries it all the same.

"Magdalene," I hear my mother call from upstairs. She hasn't left yet for work-- usually, she takes off after both Thomas and I have gotten on the bus. "Better get ready soon, darling! You don't want to be late."

It snaps me out of whatever mental fog I was in, and after ascending to my room, I begin to throw myself together. Some faded jeans, lace-up boots, and dad's jacket.

Before I leave, I run a brush through my hair and try to make it look decent. I don't braid it today; in fact, I haven't braided it since Friday night. Every time I try, I remember the way Harry looked at me back at the diner.

And it stops me.

I haven't told a soul about what happened at the fair. When he dropped me off that night, my parents were already asleep. I know that at some point I'll have to come clean, because we never keep matters this heavy from one another. But at the moment, I'm not ready to say anything.