Dust

| 8 |

Everything won't stay the same. The window frames keep bending with the slightest gust of wind. I don't know how the bees still get in her room, tiny legs stuck on the cream curtains, incessant buzzing. Noises overlap with laughter, an agonising breathless screech as Stella spins on her desk chair. How can she not hear it? I am well aware this is all in my head but lord, could she just stop!

- And then he said "I just wanted an excuse to hold you". – her laughter again, piercing my ear drum.

The words get caught halfway up my throat. For the first time in forever she seems to notice my presence, catching a glimpse of me while she spins slower, one of the wheels getting choked on the carpet.

- What is wrong with you now?

I search Stella's voice for traces of annoyance, but all I sense is boredom. "Nothing" I try to reply. "Nothing at all" an answer too quick, reflex of years understanding that nobody really wants to learn anything about you, they just want vacant stares and nods, an ego boost in the form of slightly less attractive superficial friends.

I ignore the dull ache building in my lower back from sitting in the same position too long. Stella trails along in her descriptive narrative of chlorine boy; I give it my all to not interject with my own feelings about how he burns my trachea and makes my eyes bloodshot every time she goes near him.

The overlay of sounds continues, dissonant orchestra in death and summer storms while her mother cooks dinner in the downstairs kitchen. Still, I try to regain my composure, focus on what I can touch, see, smell, naming it. Stella giggles, eyes glowing bright, trained on the spot in the ceiling where she threw her phone one time.

- Freak accident. – I'm the one to interrupt the odd silence that fell while we weren't paying attention.

My unsolicited intervention is enough to garner me a raised eyebrow.

I reck my brain to find the dubious train of thought I never really lost.

- His brother, I heard he lost his brother in a water bike accident.

Stella is quick to return to her spinning while standing still, impossible acrobatics that only she can engage in. How I could never tell her anything she didn't already know. Birth certificate dates and approximate times of death all spit in fiery succession between menial details of family feuds and blood lineage issues.

I hear her mother's soft distant callings, asking if we're staying. Stella is quick to reply that we are both leaving before dinner. Now who is the one to reply by reflex? Hand already reaching for the house keys and foot sliding in white sandals.

We are going again, her breezing through steep staircases downwards to heaven. What else in new?