Au Revoir

Chapter 2

   I heard the familiar footsteps of my eldest brother passing my bedroom door. I jumped to my feet, my latest drawing clasped in one hand, and I pulled the door open to find him trying to sneak past.

"Harry, look!" I gushed, showing him the drawing. I knew I was acting childish, but I yearned for someone to recognise that my drawing was improving and Harry was the only one who seemed to care. He smiled down at me and took the piece of paper, studying it thoroughly.

"Wow, Kim, you're getting really good," he enthused, handing the picture back to me. He made a move to continue on, headed for the front door of the house. I reached out, taking his arm in my grasp to stop him from leaving.

"Where are you going?" I asked. We both knew that our parents would be home at any minute, and Harrison hated seeing them. Lately he had been disappearing more and more, and I hardly saw him anymore. He gave me a small, sheepish smile, and I knew that it was happening again.

"I'll only be gone for three hours at the most," he promised. Reluctantly, I released him.

"You can't avoid Mum and Dad forever," I told him. He flashed me a cheeky grin as he headed for the front door, calling back over his shoulder as he vanished into the night.

"I can try."

He left at seven-thirty.

I became anxious at ten-thirty.

Luka came home at eleven.

And that's when I learnt that my brother was dead.

...

Steph watches me in disbelief as I sit before her, completely emotionally exposed. She swallows, clearly tossing up the best way to approach the assumptions she's making about my psychiatric situation.

"I suppose you're still waiting for him to return, then... Do you think that's what it is?" she tries. I sigh softly to myself, gazing out the window in a weak attempt at distracting myself from the situation. I murmur that it's possible, but I'm still not convinced. Harrison meant the world to me - I can hardly see how my abandonment issues could be pinned down to just one factor. But, I know that Steph is just clutching at straws, intrigued by this broken woman before her, hung up on her brother's death from over sixteen years ago, but able to move on from her (more recent) mother's death.

"Did it cross your mind that perhaps Harry didn't want to come home that night?" The question stuns me, seemingly having come out of the blue. I frown at my psychiatrist, trying to decipher the meaning behind the question. I don't like what I come up with.

"My brother was not suicidal," I bark, through gritted teeth. She shakes her head at me.

"I'm just thinking aloud," she insists. "From the sounds of it, he really didn't want to have to face your parents."