A Brief Love Affair

I. Storm

It's only been two weeks, and Stephanie expects me to go to school. She thinks that's more than enough time to "figure it out." Honestly, these past fourteen days have been absolute torture. I've barely eaten, I never talk to anyone, and I don't think I've gotten more than a couple hours of sleep.

I thought she would be more upset about Jace. Even when you're a heartless bitch of a stepmother, you should be at least a little bit shaken by the death of a son you've raised for three years.

Dad has barely talked to me. He just lets Stephanie speak for him. He locks himself in his room and does absolutely nothing. I haven't seen him since six days ago when I accidentally bumped into him on my way to the kitchen.

When Jace died, it was a bright, sunny day.

It should've been raining.

Stephanie tried to force some of her Nutri-Bars down my throat for breakfast, but I just ignored her. She says I'm too thin. I don't care. Aren't people my age supposed to strive to be thin?

Every day, I pass his bedroom door. Every day, I expect to hear his music blasting through the thin walls, or see him making a peanut butter and banana sandwich in the kitchen. I expect Stephanie to yell at him for eating something unhealthy. I expect him to bring home a random friend from school, and I expect them to stay up all night yelling and screaming about whatever the hell it was that particular day. I expect him to whisper to me late at night through the door separating our rooms when he has nowhere else to turn, invite me to his room, and tell me about his troubles. I expect him to steal my colored pencils for a school project and call me 'Stormy' when I get mad. I expect a hand on my shoulder, a hug on a sleepy Sunday morning, a breakfast of sloppily made waffles when I had a bad day. I expect Jace to still be here because I can feel him, but I can't see him, and that's what kills me.

Stephanie calls up the stairs and says that I'm going to be late for school. I don't respond. She yells louder.

Jace would tell her to stop yelling at me.

I wait until Stephanie gets fed up and leaves. Dad is still somewhere in the house, not making a sound. He hasn't gone to work since Jace died.

Jace died.

It doesn't feel real. Like a joke or a misidentification on the body. Like he went off with his friends without telling us and he'll be back when I get home from school and I'll want to kill him all over again.

I slowly put on my backpack and tie my shoes. I pile a few books and papers into my bag, and halfheartedly attempt to brush my tangled mess of dark hair into something decent, or at least presentable. I haven't washed it in two weeks.

I also haven't worn anything but Jace's old Princeton sweatshirt since he died. I can tell that he was supposed to do his laundry that day. But if I wash it, it'll be like another part of him is gone. The smell of mint gum that used to drive Stephanie insane. I keep his last pack in my pocket. I've only taken one piece. I intend to make it last for as long as possible.

I walk down the stairs and through the kitchen. The TV is on in Dad's room. Yelling and the calm voice of a commentator is blaring loudly. He must be watching hockey. He's always watching hockey.

The front door is locked when I go to open it. Jace never locked the door. He said that it showed  distrust in humanity. "Who's going to rob us anyway? There's nothing worth taking," he'd argue. I'd always remind him that we've got a TV and multiple computers and stuff, but he dismissed it with "Like I said. Nothing worth taking."

Dad's car is parked in the driveway. The black Honda is thinly coated in cheap blue paint. Jace and I did that for Father's Day when I was eight. Jace's red mountain bike is leaning against the garage door, my purple one is standing neatly in the bike rack. I want to take his bike. I want to take it and pedal far, far away. But I know in the back of my mind that I just can't for too many reasons and I need to take my mind off of him, just for a minute. So I take my bike out of the rack and slowly pedal away from the garage.