Broken (temporary title)

Chapter 2

"Sahara, stop crying," I whine, though I'm ready to break into tears myself. "Get up, brush it off, and keep walking if you really want that chocolate."

She nods repeatedly, hiccuping and trying to breathe between sobs. But her body stays there, glued to the ground. It's useless. She's like Dad when the liquor's out, crying on the floor and shaking too hard to move.

It was just a fall, but I know why Sahara's crying. She knows why she's crying. I don't blame her for crying. After all, that was how the split started.

We were six and a half and Striker had just turned thirteen. Everything was great. Dad took us out for ice-cream at the park. Striker was riding his skateboard. Mom would soon be home from work in Manhattan. It wasn't uncommon for her to work on Saturdays. She'd meet us in less than an hour.

Sahara got vanilla ice-cream. I got something with sprinkles. We ate and laughed and ran around, squealing, ice-cream all over our faces. When we grew tired of this, we ran after Striker, begging to try out his board.

Take the drunkenness away from him, and he can be a really nice guy. He agreed, even helped us learn to ride. He'd hold us and explain how to try small tricks... it was fun. We were impatient, but it was fun.

Sahara was about to take her tenth turn on the board, only this time, she wanted to do it herself - no Striker. He wouldn't allow it unless we had permission from Dad, who was watching us from a nearby bench.

Of course, Sahara ran up to him and started pleading. He just shrugged and laughed, watching us.

"Just be careful!" I remember him shouting, back, smiling in the sunshine, happy as a father could be. What was there to be unhappy about? He had three beautiful children and a wife, as well as food on the table and a roof over his and his family's heads. Sure, he and Mom argued at times, and no, it wasn't very pretty, but in the end, everybody was happy and healthy and life was just absolutely great, a rarity we should've appreciated way more than we did at the time. It was that day that everything fell down, starting with Sahara.

She had ignored Striker's directions to start slowly and practice just standing on the skateboard for balance. She didn't think practice was necessary.

She put all her strength into her speed and started whizzing down the pavement. Striker and I ran after her and screamed for her to stop before she rode out of the riding area and onto the rode. The last thing we needed was for her to get hit by a car, or hit a car. The latter was at least easily repairable.

Daddy only noticed a second after we screamed, running as fast as he could (about as fast and well as a toddler who just learned to stand). Nevertheless, none of us got there in time. Sahara hit a bench and her face and hands were quickly scratched up. Her nose was bleeding heavily. So were some areas on her arms. She was crying like a wild animal, holding a baby tooth in her palm. We got her into the car and raced home to wash her up before any infection could settle in. It really wasn't that bad after the dirt and blood were washed off. Her nose seemed to be broken, but that was the most it came to.

Her nose didn't get much better after we washed and fixed her up. The bleeding slowed down a bit, but even a small trickle of blood could mean a serious injury.

Mom came home while Dad was holding an ice pack on Sahara's upper nose. She hadn't stopped wailing since she fell. I think at that point she was purely crying out of fright, not pain.

Mom was furious. She started screaming at Dad, and soon it blossomed into a full-blown fight. She scared us. She actually got Sahara to shut up.

We hid in a corner and watched the whole thing. Striker tried to stop them (he was such an angel then) and came back with a bruise on his cheek and an ugly one on his arm. He didn't let this get to him. He was smart. He had two little girls to keep safe. So, without saying a word, he took us each by the hand and led us to the basement. We locked the door. We didn't have to, though, because nobody bothered to get us anyway. He told us to cover our ears because Mom was saying nasty things we should never hear. But even that couldn't block out Dad's crying. It was real crying back then, not the soft, muffled, lost sobs we eat everyday. We heard a chair scrape against the floor violently, heard the crash of dishes falling, heard Dad's blood-curdling screams. We started crying. Striker gave in, too. We all wept until the police came and took us and Dad away. All has been hell ever since.

So I don't blame Sahara for crying now. She has her hand on her nose, even though her nose is fine. If the memory is still vivid in my head, clear as if on a screen, then it must be even worse for my twin, who has both the physical and mental pain stuck with her forever. She can cry. If she won't get up, I won't make her. I don't see a scratch on her; just dirt. But the pain is in her eyes. So I let her be and sit down, resisting to make up for the hours I lost today and the hours I lost that night when the world had gone wrong. Turned on us. Kicked us out of our happy lives forever.