Mercury

1°C

“Please let me help, Kayla, please!” I cry, desperate.

Kayla lifts her cold sky-blue eyes to lock them on me. She raises her eyebrow and lets out a short humourless laugh.

“Help?” she says in a soft but deafening tone.

I swallow hard, feel the panic overwhelm me, but nod anyway.

“I just-” “Help, August, help? What are you going to help me with?” Kayla’s words pierce through mine.

I have so much to say and so many thoughts in mind, but right now I just can’t seem to even blurt out a single word. But Kayla’s eyes are boring into mine, challenging me for a reply, and so I force myself to say something.

“Anything. If you allow me to help, I’d help with anything,” I say, with a voice that sounds more like a whisper, more than I’d intended.

Kayla chuckles as she rolls her eyes. She slams her bag on the floor and I flinch. Her hands ball into fists, and I wonder if I can get out of this alive.

Or maybe, I shouldn’t. Maybe she should kill me right now.

I chuckle in my mind. It’ll be so much easier.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about help,” she breathes, each word coming out like a sharp knife further laced with deadly needles, “the only person that can help me will be my brother.”

A painful silence fills Kayla’s bedroom, and I feel that from any moment now this silence can just kill me right on the spot.

“Unless, of course, he isn’t here anymore.”

I don’t need you to tell me that.

I shut my mouth. I can’t think of anything to say, mainly because my mind is filled with so much guilt and pain, and a whole lot of hurt. My thoughts can’t seem to swim past this mess.

“I don’t even know what you’re doing here, August,” Kayla snaps, “Do you actually think you still deserve to be here after what you’ve done?”

I press my lips into a thin line.

“In case you need me to remind you, August,” Kayla says, putting emphasis on my name and making sure that I know that I am at the receiving end of whatever she is about to say, “you killed my brother.”

With that, she picks up her bag and bursts out of the bedroom door.

Taking in a deep breath of air, I collapse on the floor.

“I didn’t.”

I didn’t kill him.

-

Slowly, I get out of the room and walk down the stairs, making my way to the kitchen. My gaze shifts to Johanna, Kayla’s mom. She sees me too, but ignores my presence as she continues to make breakfast. I slide my palms into the pockets of my jeans and walk awkwardly to her.

“I-is Kayla not having breakfast again?” I ask hesitantly.

Without even looking up from her eggs and sausages, she replies halfheartedly, “Mm-hmm.”

“Okay.” I shrug, not forgetting to add a bit of a smile, if that actually makes everything a tad bit better.

I drum my heels on the ground for a while, before Johanna speaks.

“I didn’t make breakfast for you,” she pauses, “so you might want to leave.”

I bite my lips as the pricks of those words start to settle in. I nod slowly, and proceed to take my leave. “Bye,” I say and lift a hand up. I wait for a reply, though expecting none.

To my surprise, Johanna looks up and her blue eyes (having a horrifying resemblance to Kayla’s brother’s) meet mine. But almost as immediately, they dart back down to her frying pan. I smile in defeat and turn to walk away.

-

I take a look at the clock on the wall once I reach home. Six o’clock.

Ruffling my hair with my hand, I rush into my bedroom and grab my backpack. It’s still a little too early for school, but I like the chilly morning breeze. I grab a bright orange hairband and carelessly tie my hair up, leaving a few strands of my brunette hair dangling out.

First day of school, after a long, painful summer break.

“August?” The door creaks open.

I throw my head towards the direction of the sound, and soon Mom’s figure appears in between the gap. “Hey, Mom,” I smile.

She smiles back, but with her face creased with worry. “Don’t you want to rest for a while more? You don’t have to reach school this early,” she comments.

“I know, Mom. I have things to do in school,” I reply. She nods slowly, before taking a few steps towards me and pulling me into a tight hug.

“August, please be okay.”

I say nothing.

“Please don’t be sad,” she whispers.

“I’m not, Mom,” I reassure her, “I’m okay, I swear.” She retreats slowly, and opens her mouth to say something, but I interrupt her, “Wait for me outside, Mom, I’ll be done in a minute.”

Biting her lips, she nods and leaves the room.

Soon after, I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror. My head drops down, and my eyes burn. I can’t bear to look at myself anymore.

My wandering eyes start to focus on the shiny piece of metal that’s lying on my desk, calling out to me, and I reach out my fingers to touch it.

My free hand proceeds to caress my wrist, as I stare down at the pen-knife.

“August? Are you done?” Mom’s voice distract my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I reply, my eyes still on the pen-knife.

In a rush, I fling it into my backpack and throw on a long-sleeved denim jacket as I exit my room.

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