Blaine Sativa grows up in a family of hysteria. Her mother, a bitter woman who raised her in the remote woods of Colorado, dies shortly after Blaine's older brother Clarke is institutionalized. That fateful day after losing her family, Blaine lives...
Clark Sativa never developed strong coping mechanisms. His heart's too big. It devours situations in such ravenous gulps he damn near bursts under the pressure of it all. In her twenty-three years, Blaine hasn't ever seen him cry though.
So when she visited him one Thursday, and finally summoned the courage to tell him her diagnosis, she was prepared for the lack of tears and consolation. What she wasn't prepared for was feeling as empty as his vacant expression. A part of her wishes she'd kept it to herself because her brother started beading his strings, refusing to acknowledge her.
Even after the visit she's haunted by the sheer absence behind Clark's eyes. She hid it well, though, mostly because she knows Travis has a late job he wouldn't work if he gets the slightest inkling.
As soon as he's parked in front of their little blue trailer she kisses him quickly and says, "See you when you get home."
Blaine's mouth is sore from forcing smiles so often. She thought he would have seen right through her. Invisible wires fuse to her cheeks, spreading her lips upward once again, when she waves goodbye as Travis drives away.
Unlike her brother, Blaine is no stranger to crying. Like there's something stuck in the back of her throat making it hard to breathe if she doesn't let it lose. She blinks rapidly, reluctant to break down after holding herself together this long. She can't pretend to be strong just for Travis. She has to do it for herself too.
The breeze across her skin is soothing. Fresh air always helps clear her mind so she tends to her garden. Tulips and daffodils color the side of their trailer vibrant pinks, yellows, and blues. Despite bitter April weather her flowers are flourishing rather nicely.
Kneeling in the dirt, Blaine pulls all the weeds persistently choking the life from her garden like the faulty tumor in her head. What is supposed to be relaxing oddly makes the lump in Blaine's throat grow into a mass and soon she's sucking in deep gulps of air through her nose biting back sobs.
Tears rain from her eyes hot and sticky. Clutching a handful of weeds in her fist she chucks them. Dirt clumps shatter against the side of the house with a thud. Sniffling snot she covers her face with her hands and bawls like a child.
Although the fit subsides quickly, her shoulders are still shaking and her breath rattles. A complete mess she wipes snot off her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie. Damn what these faulty Sativa genes are turning her into.
Her face is raw and red, stinging at the slightest touch, and damp dirt cakes her jeans like tar. Standing up she wipes at her muddy pants as she walks inside. Blaine's nose is still clogged, she sucks the mucus back a final time before grabbing a cup from the cabinet.
After the first drink her fingers go slack for no reason which sends the glass shattering onto the floor. Loss of motor control. It's moments like these her illness catches up with her, creeping in faster like a thief in the night. Small forgetful concerns too frequent to ignore.
Or maybe she'd always been this way. Maybe the difference is how sensitively she reacts to any impending signs. It's the five stages of grief experienced in a single emotion and, for a fraction of second, through depression and denial, she hates Travis for pushing her to this diagnosis. Anger. The nastier of the five.
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