Not Loving Austyn

(1) Not Loving Austyn

December was cold as I had remembered. By that I meant I had hoped the negative-thirty degree Celsius screaming winds and soul-sucking cabin fever of living on the Fringes of North Western British Columbia and Southern Alaska were only brought on my childish imagination. They weren't. In all my years apart from this snow covered pit, I still had that part right.

Admittedly, I probably wasn't walking into the whole situation as optimistically as I could've. I've tried to find a light at the end of the tunnel, but that's hard to do when you're digging that tunnel through your front door to get out of the house. Lucky, I thought to myself. Sure it was not uncommon to recieve two or three feet of snow in a night at Austyn Lake, but five or six was still unusual.
No, it was only as I looked out of my non-snow-covered window that I could see what was happening. The damn snowplow shoved all the snow on the block up my doorstep.

I press my fingers firmly against my temples and take a glance around my living room. Okay, what did the grief counselor say? First take in your surroundings.

That was easy. The entire living room was littered with boxes I had only hauled in yesterday. There was one tattered beige couch my parents gave me as a college gift facing a black glass coffee table which doubled as my laptop/TV stand. I hadn't rolled out my rug yet as I noticed my floors needed sweeping. A tiny cold draft constantly wafted through my window which made dust bunnies delicately dance, weaving themselves in and out of the gaps in the floorboards. This draft meant the wood stove in the far corner of the room was constantly burning. The sweet smell of pine and pitch pleasantly tingled my nostrils along with a dryness which set my throat on  fire. There was not much of a kitchen except a few beige countertops, a sink, and fridge. Not even an element, I assumed that the former renters had used the wood stove for that.

Alright. So now that I'm being somewhat calmer what am I feeling? I took a breath. Frustration. I needed to have a talk with whoever plows the streets.

My phone audibly "dings" so I rush to grab it. It's Fred, my sixteen year old step brother. The whole reason I am back here at Austyn.

Fred: Help! The Snow People have claimed our house as their own! They have prevented all entry!

I replied back,
You big baby! Just climb through the window!

I opened up a window for my "hilarious" little brother and wedged two of my first year anthropology books underneath to keep it open. I hear another ding.

Fred: But there's  no tracks! How am I supposed to find my way in?

I sighed, pulling my uggs and a seude jacket over top with a flannel touque and matching fingerless gloves then hauled myself out of the window. I trudged my way over indulging in the satisfying crunch-crunch of breaking through a frozen layer of snow.

"By god you are going to freeze." Fred exclaimed with a look of awe at my stylish yet unpractical winter attire.

"Well ex-cuse me for not looking like a puffy marshmallow." I huffed.

"I'm just thinking of you, sis."

Neither of us said a word as I tromped in and out of my pre-forged footsteps, yet the moment my midriff was poking halfway through the window Fred blurted out, "You know what would be funny? If those books toppled out, and the window fell and crushed you."

I awkwardly wiggle myself out then proceed to help out my younger brother.

"You know what I was thinking?" Fred started in his trying-to-sound-nonchalant-but-totally-holding-in-a-laugh tone.

"What?" I asked, a little scared of what he will say.

"Your dad became my dad and my mom yours. Now you're raising me."

"Yeah... so?"

"So... you're my sister AND my mom! That's incest!" Fred blurts out, feeling far too proud of himself. I wonder how long he has been holding onto that one.

I snort. "Easy there fella. I haven't adopted you yet, and I don't plan on it either."

Fred throws himself into the chair at the table and rests his head on his hands.
"I still can't believe Aunt Margrite would do this to us." Fred whispered.

"Ya, I know, neither can I."