Charade

Benji

That night, when Vic left to collect his skimmers, I knew he was wary.

After finding me asleep in his daughter's bed, I knew the last thing he wanted to do was leave us alone again. In all honesty, I couldn't blame him. So before he left, I reassured him that there was nothing going on between us, nothing at all, and that I would never do anything like that. I mean, she was thirteen for god's sake. She was only a kid.

When he left, Lily emerged from her room. Carefully, of course, so nobody could see what was inside. I was surprised to see her out of bed, but she had told Vic she was feeling better with her new fatigue-fighting medication. She sat on the couch, dressed in the usual evening wear – black tank top and plaid pyjama bottoms. However, I mostly noticed her uncovered scalp, still severely bruised, and her relaxed muscles, moulding into the couch. She didn't care if I saw her like that, in her pyjamas and without her wig or bandana. And something in me felt slightly proud of her for that.

I was cleaning the kitchen. Yes, cleaning the kitchen. I wished I was one of those people with hobbies. I guess I had my drawing, but every time I picked up a pen and a piece of paper, I saw my father's hand throwing my work into the fireplace. I didn't think I'd ever draw again. So I cleaned. Cleaning is good. It's the kind of thing someone like me does when they want to forget something. Keep moving and you won't think about it. And I really didn't want to think about Lily's inevitable death or what kind of state Vic and I would be in when the doctors' predictions rang true.

Then I heard the ding of Lily's cell phone.

She leaned over and grabbed it off the coffee table. I thought nothing of it and continued wiping down the grubby kitchen counter with an even grubbier rag, but then I felt the air change. When I looked up, Lily's back looked... different.

"Lily?" I asked. "Everything okay over there?"

She didn't say a word. Slowly, she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders trembled. I heard that little sniffle she made when she cried.

"Lily?"

She jumped off the couch, face covered, and went to run for the bedroom. I dropped the grubby rag and jumped in front of her at the hallway entrance.

"Lily," I said, grabbing her arms. "Lily, talk to me. What happened?"

"Get out the way!"

"No, no, no. Lily, tell me what happened? Who's texting you?"

"No one! Move!" She screamed, trying to shove me out of the way.

In her hysteria, I saw an opening. I grabbed her phone and ducked past her, standing by the front door, and read the messages. No, they weren't text messages. They were public posts on Facebook – a picture, to be exact, of Lily standing in some bathroom, in front of a mirror, with her wig in one hand and nothing covering her bare scalp. In the description part, it read: Looks like Baldy Locks lost her locks!!! :D :D

The worst part, however, were the comments.

Haha shes so ugly #gross

Fckin ugly AF

ET PHONE HOME!

The comments went on forever, as did the likes. When I looked up, Lily was standing in the doorway, shaking, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"The wig wouldn't sit straight," she whispered. "I... I was trying to fix it, I was trying... I didn't know they were watching."

I dropped the phone onto the carpet and took a step towards her. I needed to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. Suddenly, fire filled her eyes, her fists clenched at her sides, and I braced myself for the worst.