Absent

Chapter 1: Not-so-lovely Lindsey

When I was thirteen years old, I remember asking Ashton whether he wanted to die old or in the prime of his youth. Don't let that confuse you. I wasn't a willful kid, mature and empowered to the point where even death was under my control.

Quite. The. Opposite.

I asked him because I knew I didn't want to live to be an elder. I wanted to have a taste of life's sweetest parts, then nothing for desert. But Ashton was a hundred times more positive than I could ever dream of being, and I wanted to understand how he could think like that. He told me he would rather obtain immortality.

Apparently, he failed at that. Ashton died a simple mortal.

And death must feel this way. It’s not depression. It’s not grief. I am not dead nor alive, but somewhere in between. And with all the skipping meals and intense thirst, and how my bones crack when I extend them; I’m bending towards the definition of dead.

I can’t tell why I can still hear my heartbeat.

Or why my brain is still sending commands to my organs.

Or why I still inhale and exhale.

For some strange reason, unknown to all sense I possess, I’m still fighting to survive the starving and dehydration I put myself in.

I’m, somehow, protecting myself from committing suicide.

And after a week of this... Maybe it's time to live. I do my best effort to stand up slowly. Nontheless, I get dizzy, and fall, having briefly lost my vision.

My head receives a full impact, and that's the end of my movements for a while. The floor is still cold, the machine is still there, the curtains still drawn... And my family is still eerily quiet around me.

Mom has tried a few times to pull me out, but she can't even face me. The first words she said when she saw me are still bouncing in my head. She didn't expect me to live.

I mean, I should've figured that out the second I woke up. I didn't appear at a hospital, and no nurse stood by my side.

No. I wasn't expected to make it.

But I did it. I was underwater, drowning... and I surfaced. Against everyone's better judgment, here I am.

And as I lie there, in physical paralysis, the door swings open, and Lindsey steps in. She's... not who I used to know, either. Before my accident, her irritability was justified by her age. 'She's undergoing a teenager stage, you all did as well,' mom would say, dismissing it with a brush in hand and other priorities in mind.

I wanted to tell her, no, mom. I did not flirt with my teachers, I was never found being sensual with my classmate, I don't remember accidentally pushing a kid's dog from a roof. Sure, I had my own issues, but...

Lindsey changed schools like she changed her hair color. I tried to warn her not to dye it so impulsively, for it required attention and care, and those weren't her most well known qualities. But she did it anyway, and proved me wrong.

She also skipped school that year. Blue hair or blue uniforms?

It was dad's work that could afford Lindsey's extravagant tastes, Javier's international trips, and the education of Ashton and myself. He could pay for mom's occasional unemployment, and his own expenses in entertainment.

I used to believe entertainment meant going to the bar to drink with his buddies and nothing else. I could handle that. I mean, the guy was married to a mess of a woman, and he had lost his religiousness to the increasing hours he had had to fulfill at the office. He had also lost focus. At some point, being a father only meant family breakfasts and providing money.

Was he cheating though?

I haven't had a chance to talk to him. Lindsey, on the other hand...

She had never been mean at me, or at our siblings. We were always a team. Kids without parents... we were there for each other instead. Now there's three left. And everything changed. I'm no longer her teammate. She's on a team by herself, against everyone else on our family.

I catch a glimpse of how every feature in her face relaxes, as though arriving here was a matter of urgency. She lets out a barely audible sigh that’s both relieved and frustrated. I pretend to take no notice as I remain there, too weak to speak to her.

At the corner of my eye I see her stare at me uncomfortably. 'Determined to make a scene?' She asks, annoyed.

I, finding this is too unfamiliar, chose to respond by matching her edge. 'Not like you; crashing into people’s bedrooms.'

I give her a victorious look but take it back immediately.

She’s standing there, completely stiff. “I heard a noise.” She says, surprised, I think. “You didn’t answer. What did you expect me to do?”

I would've taken back everything until the lingering spark of anger in her gaze ignites one of my own. “Why do you care?”

Lindsey, in her school uniform (hidden beneath all the chains, earrings, necklaces and rings), suddenly looks troubled and shy. She clears her throat and moves her hands over her arms. She shrugs.

"I don't care, I just... Galileo’s waiting to take me to school, and I was on my way to ask you to come...” Lindsey speaks patiently, but I can still feel something wrong with her… with us. “But if you’re not even dressed-”

“-I’ll go.”

I mean, why not? School started just two days before my coma ended, which means I'm late this year. But mom convinced dad to pull some strings and get me in. Most of my classmates are going to senior year - except those who failed in their classes - but asking the principal to let me skip tenth grade was too much to ask. I'll be behind in that aspect as well.

Lindsey opens her mouth and closes it. "Fine. Hurry up then." She intends to leave but I stop her.

“I need food and water. And a uniform. And…” I stop doubtfully. She doesn’t seem to listen. “I need help to stand up.”

She moves quickly and calmly. She does all of it without hesitating, complaining, or speaking at all. Once she’s done, I place myself in alive status. I follow her, anxious about doing this so suddenly, and nervous about receiving sunlight.

But rather than overwhelming, it feels pleasant to be outside. While I enjoy everything that's absolutely normal for them, Lindsey and Galileo whisper to each other.

“Who’s she?”

“My sister.”

“You have siblings?”

“Yeah… something like that.”

“What d’you mean?”

“One’s adopted. One’s dead. And one’s… well… her.”