Laura Sawyer

Chapter 5: The Suspicion

Mile's was gone by the time I woke up, the sheets folded nicely on the corner of the couch. I was strangely upset that I didn't get to see him today, but I brushed it off. I was grateful he was there for me yesterday, that's all.

"Honey I'm home!" Anne yells coming in with her duffle bag and pillow slung over her shoulder. I smile at her. She looked like she hadn't slept in two years, it must have been a good sleepover.

"Want food or did you eat there?" I ask her and her large smile at the suggestion answered the question. She wanted food.

"I'll take up Mom's food while you finish in there," Anne says shoving the last piece of toast down her mouth before shooting up. I knew she just didn't want to clean up the dishes but I let her go. I didn't mind cleaning up. Plus it wasn't long before Anne crashed even with her stomach full.

I had the pans on the drying rack when Anne comes back down the stairs with a heartbroken look on her face and egg in her hair.

I grab her by the chin, "Did she do this?" Anne's eyes cloud up and I feel fire burning deep in my belly. This woman has gone too far. Anne was the perfect daughter, she was kind and generous. 

She cared about people and animals with her whole heart as if the world was a place of greatness and joy. A place that could be fixed, mended like a small hole in a sweater. But every day that passes with my Mother treating her like garbage, I see that image of the world slowly fading. The hole, unraveling the sweater thread by thread, a ball of yarn the only thing let in its place. Until there is a frown where once there was a smile. Until there is despair where once there was hope.

I storm up the stairs, ignoring my sister's whimper. She sat there in bed staring at the closest, a twisted smile on her face, her plate on the floor. She didn't acknowledge my entrance as if I existed in another plain, a ghost's futile attempts to try and communicate with the living world.

"What the fuck," I snarl at her. Yet there was no flinch, no gasp, no scold. There were only her and her constant blinks, content breaths.

"I used to feel bad for you. I used to pity you, in that pathetic catatonic state you play so well when I'm in the room. But I know it's an act in this twisted game of yours. Why do you choose to only be violent with her," I move until I'm standing directly in front of her, "Huh? Is it because she's young enough to still love you? Young enough to not fight back?".

My Mom wasn't impressed by my speech. Or so, I took it that way when her eyes stayed focused on some far away object, some intangible idea. And the fury inside me burned brighter, eating away my insides, leaving me nothing but a torch. A vessel for the fire that I could no longer control. A match in the forest that started the forest fire.

"You know what? Get out! I pay for this house, I pay the bills and food. You're no longer welcome here," yet she made no effort to leave, "Did you hear me bitch? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" I scream at her blinking face. In blind anger, I turn and throw open the closet door and I feel the color drain from my face. His stuff was still here. His sent lingering in the air, his shirts hanging from the rod and his jeans folded neatly in the cubby hole, his shoes scattered on the floor as if he meant to straighten them out later. Every last belt was accounted for. In the corner his suitcase sat, unpacked and unused. My confusion morphed into horror as I turned to the women on the bed. Her eyes slowly moved until they were staring deep into my own.