Catharsis

NINE

Rain thumps a rhythm on the window pane. I'm not sure what I dreamed about, but it must have been bad. My skin is slick and my comforter is damp with sweat. Oh, right. I'm a werewolf, I nearly forgot. Running a forearm across my forehead I bring myself to. The room is dark and dismal. It could be 9 p.m. for all I know. I check my iphone. Three in the afternoon. Why the heck didn't Sammy wake me? Great, she's probably stewed herself away to oblivion by now. I throw a loose black tank top over my cut-up skin. It's unnaturally colored: gray and dingy and covered in scratches and scrapes like I've been mugged in an alleyway somewhere. At least my hand has stopped bleeding, even if the cut is still gaping open.

Sammy's soft crying wafts up through the stairwell as I head downstairs. She's slouched over with her head in her hands in the dining room. A wet towel, splotched red with my blood is sitting on the oak table in front of her. The house is dreary. Every window that usually pours sunshine is instead exposing us to the low hanging rain clouds. Clear glass spotted with water droplets. The only light on is one that's glowing faintly over the range in the kitchen.

"Are you okay, Sam?"

Surprised at my sudden entrance, she gasps sharply and lifts her head. She dries her tear-streaked cheeks with an open palm, whisking away any evidence that she had been crying. She prefers to verbalize her emotions, than let them come out in tears. And she's very good at verbalizing. A bit of shame crosses her face when she realizes that nothing can hide the fact that she's been weeping here.

"I cleaned up the basement," she says in a hushed tone. "Go ahead and tell me that you're okay when I know you're not." Her hair is pulled back aside from a couple of strands that hang in front of her glassy eyes and curl up at the ends. All of the blood has drained out of her liquid-paper skin.

I'm doing this to her. It has been nearly twenty four hours since we fucked in our bedroom in a slab of sunshine and now this. Whatever joy she had is gone and I'm killing it. It's killing me. I swallow hard, but my mouth and throat are dry.

"All I want is for you to be happy, for things to be like they were." She picks at her cuticles.

I shrug half-way and lean against the counter across from her. "You don't think I want that, too?"

"I don't know. I don't know anymore." She sighs exasperatedly and gets out of her chair to pace back and forth in front of me.

"Of course I want to be happy. I want you to be happy," I say.

"After your dad, it was the seizure and now whatever happened last night. I'm so sorry, Aaron. I'm sorry for all of the pain you must be feeling, but I know you're keeping secrets and you won't talk to me. I can see it in your eyes. Whatever you're feeling has you held captive."

"I'm going through some stuff, so what? It's really not a big deal." I cringe at my own words. Just keep it up. Keep up the act.

"Fine, go ahead and trivialize things like you always do. You could be dying of pneumonia and would tell me it's just a little cold. So, go ahead and act like everything's okay on the outside, but you can't cover up your issues with soccer and beer and sarcasm."

"Just listen, to me. I'm coping the only way I know how." I spread my hands against the granite countertop, letting the coolness seep in.

"Yeah?" Her eyes are big and round, urgent, pressing me. "And how is that working for you? When are you going to decide to stop being a martyr and let me share in this? I can share in whatever the heck is going on with you. I can handle it."

"I can't bring you into this," I whisper my thought aloud.

"Well, leave then! Go figure it out! Get some alcohol while you're at it!" She cries and waves her hand dismissively.