Christmas With You

6. 'Twas The Night Before Christmas . . .

The house is silent.  Other than the sound of irregular breathing, frantic sobs and mournful lamentations, there is no noise.  Every year, one of our relatives insists that we shouldn't be alone at this time.  Every year, Mum or Dad or both of my parents will agree.  And every single year without fail, it ends like this; it ends with wet eyes and quavering lips.

Me? I learned to stop crying a long time ago.  Crying, I have come to realise, will never reverse the events of that night.  Crying cannot undo the damage done by the drunken driver of that car.  Crying does not possess the power of revival.  He's dead, and he always will be.

I go to the corner of my room, where I dumped my school bag after I returned home on the last day of school four days ago.  After a bit of digging, I find the bell Cameron gave to me.  Next, I grab the tinsel he wound round my shoulders last Monday, which I hung on my curtain rail.  He's definitely getting to me; last week, I realised I let my guard down for him.  Now, I'm beginning to think that that's not such a bad thing.

I don't bother telling my family where I'm going - they'll understand.  Sometimes (most of the time) I just need to be alone.

Oddly, I'm not surprised to find Cameron outside my house, poised to ring the doorbell.  His mouth falls open as he takes in my red eyes, my bedraggled hair, my sad, unsmiling face.  Hopping down the steps outside my house, I glance quickly over my shoulder.  "Are you coming or not?"

It doesn't take long to get there.  "I thought I told you to meet me here," I say, breaking the silence consuming the two of us.

Next to me, Cameron shrugs.  "I was worried."

I scoff.  "You were just scared of going to a cemetary alone in the dark."  Cameron directs a strange look at me.  "What?" I ask.

"Was that a joke?" He's smiling.

"No.  It was the truth.  Anyway, did you bring the stuff?" I change the subject.  I don't want him to start marvelling over how he's 'changed me for the better' or whatever.  I haven't changed who I am, I'm just not as scared of letting my guard down now.

Maybe he has changed me for the better.

"Yeah," Cameron nods cautiously.  I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye as we push through the wrought iron gates that lead into the graveyard; he's biting his lip and throwing discreet, nervous stares around the dark, earthy space.  "So . . . what are we doing here?"

I smile weakly.  "I want to introduce you to someone," I explain.

"Okay," Cameron nods.  "But, just so you know, I'm not all that good at keeping conversations going with ghosts or zombies."

Silence ensues and I lead him through the maze of paths winding through the grass and graves.  Finally, we approach a small white headstone with dark lettering reading Gabriel Michael Bells, 14th March 1991 - 24th December 2003.

"Cameron Perry," I whisper, my voice catching slightly, "meet my brother."