Dear December

Chapter 11

I never thought blood could be this thick. I am proved wrong.

Joel's face is dripping dark red, crooked nose and split lip drawing all attention to his wiry features. My father eventually climbed off him, storming into the other room with his chin tucked to his chest. I could see red scratches on his cheek from where Joel had snatched up four nails to rake him across the skin.

Mum thundered past my body on the floor, running to Joel and gushing over him as if he were a baby. Maybe I'm just being bitter- I suppose his face had been reduced to a bloody pulp. He'd pushed her off him, insisting he was fine and didn't need the hospital, nor anything else she was suggesting.

Now, we all sit in the living room in unsettling silence. Sparkling knives hang in the air between us. It starts to feel like a game: first person to speak is the one to get sliced. Mum chooses to bleed out first.

"I think you should leave." The words hang in the air beside like the knives. I swallow.

Exhaustion, grief, guilt. All three words come to mind at the tone of my mother's voice. But also anger. The type of anger that gathers under the surface until it becomes a glowing pit of red, hot threat. The coal in her stomach has been lit with a very testing match.

"Yes, Joel, I think you should leave," my dad says quietly.

Joel smiles through blood stained teeth. "I think she was talking to you, little brother."

Dad's jaw twitches, but he doesn't reply, nor make a move to. I'm the only person who hasn't said anything. I lean to my mother, her legs folded neatly on the couch beside me.

"You're kicking dad out?" My voice shakes with disbelief. "You can't."

My mum breathes in sharply through her nose. "I can and I will."

My gut roils. "He owns this house. You can't kick him out."

Mother grits her teeth. "Fine. Then I will suggest that your father leaves the house, for the safety of the three of us."

The three of us. Me, mother and Joel. Repulse slithers up my throat.

I start to speak, but there's nothing to say. My words will fall flat with the weight of emptiness, and no one will hear a sound. After all, everything I say about Joel is a lie.

"I'll pack my things." Dad stands, eyes reaching out to every corner of the room that doesn't include a person. Once he approaches the stairs, he uses the banister to pull himself up. It's just the three of us in the room, accompanied by Joel's slim smirk. The cut in his lip widens.

Mum claps her hands, jumping from the sofa and offering a feeble smile. "Who wants coffee?"

I tether my eyes onto Joel's. "Mardi might've." A silent threat. A warning. I know my aunt was telling the truth, and I can tell by the way Joel's throat bobs that I'm not mistaken. I march to my bedroom, brushing past my mother close enough that she's thrown off balance.

It's a couple of hours later when I hear the front door's handle turn. Quietly, I slip out of my room and creep half way down the steps, eyes peering over the banister at my mum's knotted arms. Dad is holding two bags, both slung over his shoulders like bin bags. He doesn't say a word as he shuffles through the door, vision hanging an inch below Joel's face.