I make a half-hearted, half-lit effort to pack—a shirt, a pair of shorts, extra straps for my sandals—before collapsing back. Not of exhaustion. Not really. Something's compacting my heart into a ball, and something else won't let me breathe. I'm not tired, though. So I wait for my head to cool down. (It does, just a bit.)
I feel like I'm standing at the edge of an enormous cliff. Teetering. Centre of balanced skewed. Now and then I lean forward—am pushed forward, by a strong, invisible hand.
(No, I'm not at the edge of a cliff.)
No. I feel like I've just started to fall.
There's just a few hours left.
I can't sleep.
---
The knapsack I'm in the process of filling has exploded. The objects strewn across my floor are its guts. (My guts, too.)
Jackie and Austin are calm beside me. Although my room is small, and the new influx of heat isn't my favourite, they've surrounded me with their presence.
(Sweaty sticks with hearts in them.)
"Are you—" Jackie begins, and I know she's about to ask something obvious, though I don't know why.
"He's not okay," Austin answers for me. There's darkness on his face. He doesn't want her here.
He doesn't want her coming with us.
---
I can't sleep.
It seems stupid to think night shouldn't be this dark. To think there ever was such a thing as light—because if there was, why would it choose to leave us?
Why would Dad choose to leave us?
I'm not okay.
I toss in my bed, finally alone. Our late-night talk spirals in my head. The promises and strange intensity. The whispers like snakes made of air.
Austin and Jackie both want to come.
That's why I have to go alone.
---
When the time for breakfast comes, I hold everything down within a tight stomach. Eventually I can't take the charade anymore. The heavy silence (it sits on my chest like a rock). The avoided looks. Even the dry chewing sound our mouths make as we chomp down on artificial bread and meat. (I can't take the taste, either. I never could.)
The dining room is a dirty box and I can't take it anymore. All the light that penetrates it is filtered through dust and the film on our eyes. I can't take it anymore.
"I'll be outside," I say. Austin tries to speak, but I add, quickly, "I just need air." But there's no air anywhere. Only heat. All we breathe in is heat and translucent sun. (I don't say that.)
Mother looks somewhere I'm not standing and nods.
"I'll just be a minute," I say. And I understand why Jackie says pointless things.
YOU ARE READING
Blaze
Ciencia FicciónThere used to be a season called winter. I think. Now, there's nothing but hot days and hotter days. Blurry waves rising from cracked gravel. Sweat in my eyes. Thirst. (Cover art by @benjammies. I owe him lots!)
