Blaze

11. A Bad Hope

What I really do once I'm alone is cry.

There aren't many tears and they aren't thick, but the hot prickling in my eyes comes in waves and doesn't stop for a long time. The world half-melts around me. Eventually it's not a world at all: just a collection of moments floating underwater. Eventually my head feels strange and I blink a lot. I don't understand why I'm crying, really—only that I shouldn't be, because I'm wasting water. Because I'm too old. Because I know better. Because even if the others don't see, they could easily guess.

I lean my forehead against the cooler, dirtier surface of the bathroom mirror. Try to see.

I'm not the one who's reflected in the glass.

Mother.

Father.

Tim.

Jackie.

Austin.

Me.

Every face incites a fresh torrent.

---

To me, Jackie and Tim have always been there. The first and last stop on the rationing route.

The memories pertaining to our first meeting are like vapour.

Now that vapour's made of acid.

It irritates my eyes.

---

A series of knocks.

I wipe my face in a hurry and let Austin in. He's frantic, limbs moving like they're made of blurs. I think he's too worried to be angry, for which I'm glad. Something tells me I might just shatter if he pushes me against the wall again—if he pushes me now.

"It's been an hour."

"Has it?" (Time is a strange thing.)

He nods, shaking his hair all over his face, and I feel my eyes tighten. I don't cry. Don't try to part his bangs.

I just ask, "Where's Jackie?"

"She wants to be alone," he says.

That's not an answer.

"Where's Jackie?"

He chews the words. Then he spits them out. They glide a wet trail down my cheek.

"I think she's crying."

I look at him more closely then. If she were crying, he would be with her. He would be crying too, because he wouldn't be able to help it.

Make sure she isn't laughing before jumping to a conclusion!

Biting my tongue before the voice inside my head borrows my own, I stalk past him and out of the bathroom, into the hallway made of heat. I listen, but can't make out the sound of sobs. The house seems too empty to ever be filled.

"She still in the living room?" I whisper. Conserving energy is a must; I have no intention of searching the entire house.

Austin half nods.

"But I think we should look for Mom. I think that's—that's what we should do now," he says. His eyes slightly smolder, and I brace myself. He must notice, because he smiles. Looks to be cooler. But when he turns away, something tells me he's turning the wall to ash. "I'm sorry for earlier."