Half and half

chapter 13-dylan

Chapter 13

Dylan

I was starting to get really pissed. I had just gotten back from the academy after reassuring Dhaile i wouldn’t turn invisible for history class. Party pooper. I looked around my room, taking in all the perfect normality of it. Except for an annoying shadow that didn’t want to leave. “so, did you like your dad?” i ignored him. I’d stopped pretending to be hurt after sixty seven questions. I counted. “so, is your mom dating someone geeky and with bad breath?” sixty eight. I didn’t dignify that with a response. “so, do you have brothers?” i rolled my eyes , but since it seemed like an honest approach to conversation, i answered. Kind of. “had.” Then i began getting my clothes for the next day out, tossing the acompanying dagger towards Dimitri, who caught it with suprising ease. He continued as if i hadn’t just tried to assasinate him. “so, what happened?” i huffed, “why do you keep saying ‘so’?” i asked. It was starting to fray my nerves. He actually seemed to consider my question. He shrugged, “what happened?” At least he dropped the ‘so’ buisness. “he died.” I said curtly. He got a far-away look, and to my surprise, an emotion flickered across his face. It was gone just as fast as it had appeared, but i was positive i’d seen it. It was deep, deep sadness, tinted with regret and guilt. “what happened?” he repeated. He didn’t seem affected and i was starting to think i had imagined the trace of an emotion on that cold face. I looked away. Then the most surprising thing happened. Remember when Thaila and i were thinking about the battle and she sucked me into her memories? The same thing happened, although this time, i sucked Dimitri in.

“mom, can i have chips?” Peter asked in his annoying 5-year-old way. “no, Peter, i’ve already told you three times. Now, stop shaking your father’s arm, he’s driving!” mom exclaimed, annoyed. Peter scowled and retreated to the backseat of the mercedes benz. “Dylan had chips yesterday. And Marie told me chips make me fat.” Peter whined. I was eleven at the time and we were picking up Marie from a girly sleep-over. Apparently, i wasn’t seeing it from my memories because i was watching myself. I was scrunching up my face, annoyed at whatever i was annoyed at at the time. I was adorable, even i had to admit that. My silky black hair fell stylishly in gentle waves. My wide grey eyes were impressive. My face had elegantly sharp cheekbons-i still have those- and full lips which were set in a pout. “momma? What is that?” i asked, pointing out the window. Mom and dad both turned, not minding the wheel for half a second. That was all it took. Peter screamed something about chips and dad, who was distracted staring at whatever i was pointing at, yanked the wheel to the left. A truck was coming from the other direction. My view expanded and i was outside, seeing my 11-year-old terror as the truck came towards us a thousand miles per hour. A tire blew up in the mercedes. We would’ve all made it out otherwise. My parents acted fast. My dad yanked me from my seatbelt-i still have the scars- and covered me with his own body. The truck hit us. I still remember the impact, the pain, the dazzling headlights. Trucks are so ugly when you see them close-up. The car flew side-ways, toppling over and over and over. Peter was screaming, my mom was screaming, my dad was yelling. I was silent. Then Peter’s screams cut off the moment we hit the pavement. Mom’s didn’t. My dad’s did. I never screamed. I remember being huddled against my dad’s chest, the pain numbed by shock. My mom was still screaming. I wish Peter were screaming. I felt a thick hot liquid dripping onto my head. I remember looking up, seeing my dad’s gaunt face. His mouth was dripping something. Back then i didn’t know it was blood. I felt his heart, strong and steady, so i didn’t understand the glazed look in his eyes. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump. Thump. Thump. I stayed waiting a long time to hear the next thump. It didn’t come. My mom was still screaming her throat raw. I peeked around my dad’s arm and saw the crumpled backseat i was supposed to be occupying. My side had been caved in by the bent door and Peter… i couldn’t describe him. I knew i had sucked Dimitri into what i remembered, so that he, also could hear my mother’s screams and see my obviously dead brother, so that he could feel the warmth leak from my father. I felt bad about it, but there was nothing i could do. The vision time sped, giving us some sightings. The hospital, my mother crying, my sister yelling it was my fault, the funeral. The memories stopped somewhere i didn’t want the to stop. Dimitri didn’t have to see this. But it played out anyway. I was sitting in my room, my arms around my legs. On my face was an expression no 11 year old should wear. Nothingness. It was inhuman. It was as if i were empty. No expression, just a fridgity that chilled my memory. I got up from my crouched position. I didn’t wince when the cast on my arm banged against the door of the bathroom. I was inside those cold, cold white marble tiles. My mother would be crying in her bedroom, she wouldn’t hear me cry out. My sister would, but she wouldn’t come. I went inside the bathroom and rumaged in the cupboard under the sink for the spare razors my father alwayes stashed there. I found a nice sharp one and looked at it for a long time. I pulled up the sleeve on my sweater. If you don’t want to hear what happened next, skip to the next page. I’ll be in my room agin. For those who do, i’ll keep out no details. My eleven year old self held out his cast. He somehow managed to slip out his arm from it. Now, if you have ever worn a cast you’ll think ‘that’s impossible. It’s too close to the skin’ well, i’ll tell you you’re wrong. Nobody actually has tried to get it off. The pain stops them short. But for an unfeeling 11 year old, this was no big deal. I ripped it off and looked at my fat, purple wrist. I had once heard bruises were created when you broke a vein, so i knew it would bleed more. I didn’t care. It would probably hurt more, too. I still didn’t care. I swiped the razor sideways, hard, along the inside of my wrist. Then i stared at the crimson rivoulets pouring out of my arm. I did the same with the other one. I was stariting to get dizzy from watching and losing so much blood. I think i screamed, because when my sister burst into the bathroom, she stared at my limp form crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. Then she saw the message i had written in the mirror. Im sorry Marie. I know it was my fault. And she began crying. She ran screaming into my mom’s bedroom, yelling over and over “he killed himself. Because of me. He killed himself.” Then my mother called nine-one-one. When i woke up, i faced white walls, white covers, nurses wearing white, doctors wearing blue.