The Destined

Chapter Two - Nathaniel

Chapter two:

Nathaniel

I never really understood the term 'butterflies in your stomach', but now it makes perfect sense. The butterflies are there, alright, fluttering around in my stomach, tickling, wanting to be noticed. In fact, I don't think my butterflies are confined to just my stomach. They seem to be zooming all over the place.

I look up at the mirror, adjusting my tie. The reflective surface is covered in grime that won't come off, but it's okay as a mirror; just like everything else in this house is just okay, which is another way to say we survive, and that's all we ask for.

I take a deep breath, smoothing down my blazer and looking myself in the eye. "It's okay," I murmur. "He's your brother. He's going to be just as thrilled to see you as you are to see him. There's no need to be nervous. Stop it." And I wish I could. I wish I could burn the butterflies in my stomach, could walk into that ball with my head held high, feeling as confident as I make myself look. But I can't. I can't because I'm going to see my brother and I haven't seen my brother in a year and I won't see him again for a month and I can't be calm. I can't.

"Nate?" her voice comes from the edge of my bedroom, and I turn, wiping my face on my sleeve. "Nate, honey, you're shaking." I hear her footsteps come closer, feel her touch my cheek with her palm, but don't look up to see her eyes. Her hand drops to mine, and then I am that little bit closer to calm.

"Am I?" I ask vaguely. Her thin fingers squeeze mine, and I force myself to look up at her. Her warm blue eyes are wide with worry; her hollowed cheeks flushed pink, the only colour in my room. There's a crease in her forehead, reminding me of her ever-growing age. I swallow hard and my mother wipes away a tear I hadn't noticed fall with her thumb.

"Yes," she says. "You know, you don't have to do this. You don't have to go."

"Yes, I do," I insist. "I have to do it. For you. For Jude. For myself." Mother smiles a little, and pats my cheek fondly.

"You always were such a good boy." I reach for my tie to re-adjust it, but mother slaps my hand away. "Stop messing with that Goddess-forsaken tie. You look great, and you're already late enough."

I roll my eyes. Gone now is the fondness. My mother is back to being the strict perfectionist that I know and love.

"Okay," I say. "Where's dad?" The moment the words leave my mouth, I know it's the wrong thing to say. A shadow passes over my mother's face, and for the first time there's a hint of nervousness lurking in her eyes.

"Your father is in the bar down the road," mother says shakily. I know the unspoken words: he's drunk. Again. And when my father gets drunk, bad things happen.

I step back as if I've been pushed, and can't keep the scowl from my face. "When will he be back?" I ask, not wanting to know the answer. Not wanting him to ever be back.

"Tonight, probably. Before you get home, I expect."

I distract myself as best I can by looking around my bedroom. Trying to focus on anything but the faded bruises that blossomed on my mother's arms, thighs, stomach the last time father got drunk.

I settle my eyes on the photo that hangs above my straw bed. It has no frame and is hung a little crookedly with tape, but it was once my favourite picture of all. It was taken when I was six. All four of us were smiling at the camera, Jude hooking a thumb behind him at the new house that we had bought. The house we live in now. It was a small two bedroom house with cement walls and grey, dusty floors, but we couldn't be happier.

What a joke.

Jude had his arm around me; two dark haired boys with pale skin and big smiles, and suddenly I miss him so much it hurts. Father was reaching behind mom, tugging her blonde hair lightly, and she was laughing; only now it looks more like a grimace. I suddenly want to throw the picture across the room.