Survival of the Fittest

Chapter Three: The Wait

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound of the clock ticking, so audible in the soundless room, made me grit my teeth together – it seemed so slow, and far, far too measured. It seemed false, nothing could be that equal, that unchanging. If there was one thing that today had taught me, it was that everything you thought was permanent could be shattered in a moment, and irreversible changes could take place in just seconds.

It had taken the near deaths of both my brothers for me to realise it, to realise just how fragile the structure of all our personal worlds was. For all I knew, this day could be the day that everything in my life changed – and to think when I woke up it was just a normal day.

I prayed one of the ‘irreversible changes’ didn’t take place today.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

My teeth grated and it took everything I had not to stand up and smash up the clock beyond repair. Instead I distracted myself by glancing around at my dad who sat on the opposite side of the living room from me, his expression still that of shock. Once I’d explained what had happened to my father, he, with a scared look on his face, had rushed into the kitchen, seen the boys, and been shooed out. I was sure it was a sight a parent should never have to see, and since then he hadn’t said a word, but I was desperate to hear him speak. I wanted him to tell me why it was he looked so grave when he walked in the door, I wanted him to tell me about the Council meeting; I wanted a distraction.

But there was nothing. The room was silent, evident from just how loud the clock sounded in my ears, and my mind was buzzing with so many worries and anxieties that were impossible to block out – this was what I wanted the distraction from. And so, we waited.

And waited.

‘Dad,’ I whispered finally, breaking the uneasy silence and almost sighing with relief when I did. His head slowly turned up to face me from where it had been buried in his hands for the past goodness knows how long, and I swallowed with nerves when I saw the haunted look in his eyes. There was one thing for sure: if Peter and Jonah did survive, none of us were ever being let out alone again. As I said before, my dad was always a worrier, and this would magnify that by a great deal. I drew in a deep breath, knowing I needed something, anything, to distract myself. ‘What happened at the meeting?’

My father shook his head. ‘I- I can’t, Clematis,’ he whispered, and I trembled when I heard the desperation in his tone and saw the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. I really wanted him to tell me, but seeing that made me realise that by asking him I would be being incredibly selfish – while I might want to be, my father did not want to be distracted.

So I just nodded and glanced away from the torn up man in the corner, resigning myself to the fact that I was stuck with my thoughts. So, instead of a distraction, I tried to divert my thoughts.

‘Mummy!’ six year old me called out, tears streaming from my eyes. I was dressed in brown trousers and a white polka dot top with frills – frills that I detested. I was a tomboy already. ‘Peter stole my stake!’

I heard the sound of exasperation before I saw my mother walk into the living room. Her blonde hair was held up by a towel, and she wore a loose dressing gown with a nightie visible beneath. She took in the scene before her and sighed, reaching out to me and gathering me up in her arms.

‘Peter, give her the stake,’ she said, sounding tired as I squirmed in her arms, trying to get free. I never was a very cuddly child, even when I was as upset as I was now. Peter huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and then jumping slightly when the stake clutched in his small hands jabbed him in the side.