The World's Aftermath [ON MAJOR EDIT]

Chapter 22 [Cleo]

I lay restless and unfelt. I know I am by now, awake. But it feels like down here and the bed's surface is where I can't simply leave. Something about it just wants me there, forever and restless. As my eyes find contact to the real world, for a second, it has to adjust from the much, glinting sunlight.

Today's Saturday and thank god it is.

A slow thought curls in as I try to turn back to sleep: the curtains are open. I never leave them open. And certainly, Mom wouldn't be such a terrible surprise to bring a maid into the house. I remember it was from one of her silly guidebooks. Sometimes, she's sweet that way. And other times, it isn't.

And then, the memory occurs to me: Austin, the woods, the dark, and the moment my eyes faded to sleep. But no, it couldn't be. It was just a sulking part of those nightmares. They always felt real anyway.

My head's starting to ache, like a siren all over again.

Slowly promising myself back to where I am, I catch voices down the hall. The hanging clock reads six past twenty minutes and my body urges to get up and find out. I walk out of the conveniently open door, passing the dimmed hall, and following the sun's light from the kitchen and living room across.

Mom and Eric. Hushed, as if it were to keep me in bed, but firm. The unusual creeps up to my mind, it's already odd knowing they never engage in a conversation with one another. A 'hi', 'good morning/afternoon', and 'how are you?' is all I can recall between them.

"... isn't done yet, I'm still working on it, Eric, I'm always working on it. I know she's bothered by it... but if--" She takes the second to breathe in, "If she won't help me this time, I don't know what can. God, I am begging just this once."

I don't need to walk out of this hall to see, they're sitting on the only spot where two can be seated. Mom is in one of her slow, serious talks. She's not someone that would cry in front of anyone, and even though I've seen her cry, it isn't when she's talking. I wish I could be wrong, but now, it isn't the same thing.

"I understand," Says a soft-spoken Eric.

"I just wish... I wish your mom did too. She's given the money, but not a single word. Is she... is she okay?"

"She's good. She's been what she's always been."

"Good... that's good...," She sniffs.

It gets quieter. The great thing about this house is that you could hear anything, even when no one is saying a word. The whispers are always there unless an air conditioner or the vacuum cleaner turns them down.

Mom always cared about her sister-in-law, and even I know that. Yet, when it came to everything else, they fought like boxers in a ring--could nevertheless even see each other in the slightest second. Like broken promises and the usual finances, they were always different each time. Yet somehow, these dots don't connect on one reason why. It was always everything to nothing, secrets and lies they kept in a hidden jar together. Shattered but not completely.

"I'm sorry about Cleo. I'll keep a better eye on her," He assures her.

"Good. That's a promise, Eric. Don't you ever forget it," She says, in a jokingly manner. "She's got a quick foot for curiosity, I get that part. But god--I don't know what she was doing this time, what she was thinking--"

My heartbeat quickens, tensing. So it did happen.

"She's a good girl, Eric. But sometimes, I have zero clue what' s going on inside that head of hers..."

There is a long awful pause. A sip of morning beverages, murmurs of their thoughts moving in the silence, like lasting the moment for the right words to come out.