That October Night

Chapter 1: Then Dent In The Wall

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places." — Ernest Hemingway

     NEW ORLEANS IN January had a particular kind of cold. Not the kind that bit — more like the kind that settled. Got into your coat, your hair, the space between your shoulder blades and stayed there. I'd learned that about this city the way I'd learned everything about every city we'd ever lived in — by paying close attention to the parts of it that didn't show up on any welcome brochure.

Two years here. Long enough to know which streets flooded first when it rained. Long enough to have mapped every shortcut between our house and the corner store three blocks over. Long enough to notice things.

I noticed everything now.

I hadn't always been like that. There was a version of me — not so long ago — who walked through rooms without scanning them first. Who trusted what felt safe without double-checking. Who didn't keep count of the exits.

October changed that.

I didn't think about October if I could help it. But my body remembered it whether I wanted it to or not — in the way I sat with my back to walls now, in the way loud unexpected sounds made my whole skeleton lock up, in the way I'd started noticing everything and trusting none of it.

We were leaving tomorrow. New city. New start. January in Miami, which I'd been told was nothing like January anywhere else.
I was counting on that.

"Are you okay?" Mum asked, entering my room as she carefully sat beside me. The coldness of New Orleans in late January made her pull Dad's jacket tighter around her shoulders.

There was something about that question that never made me feel okay.

Constantly hearing it over the past two months didn't help. Neither did my mother's cautiousness around me. She spoke to me as if I was dysfunctional and handled me as if I were broken glass.

Despite my irritation, I couldn't help but stare at the large slice of key lime pie in her hand. Eating past nine was not something she practiced. Hadn't been for weeks now. I'd noticed but hadn't said anything.

"Are you okay, mother?"

Her surprise swiftly morphed into indignation, pewter grey eyes on fire. Her plate hit my nightstand and she was on her feet, one hand on her waist, index finger pointed at my face.

"That's exactly the problem, Ray. I can't tell if you're okay or not. Looking at you is no different than looking at a blank piece of paper."

As quickly as the fire came, it dwindled. She was whimpering. And though I was sorry for the pain I'd brought to my family, I didn't show it.

I cannot.

I watched her bury her head in her hands. My throat burned but I swallowed the urge to cry. If crying made situations better, my life would be like walking in a field of daffodils with a rainbow and the sun shining just right.

I shifted closer, awkwardly patting her back. "Just please stop asking me if I'm okay, mums."

"But it's my job."

"Yes. Job well done. Seriously though — stop. I'll let you know if I feel otherwise."

She raised her hand and I flinched — hard, the kind that moves your whole body before your brain catches up. Mum froze. I froze.