Knee Pads

01 | footwork

CHAPTER ONE | FOOTWORK

movement of the feet ideal in a determined form of skating.

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          My entire kitchen stank of alcohol.

          I carefully poured an entire bottle of scotch down the sink, being as silent as possible so as to not disturb the ghosts or noisy family members, while my brother muttered incoherently somewhere behind me. I had become desensitized to these occurrences long ago and, at this point, this was just another regular Thursday afternoon for me.

          Even the smell, fiery and strong like a goddamn punch to the gut, was just one of those things.

          "I'm sorry," Jordan blabbered. That, too, easily faded into the background. "I'm sorry, Wren. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

          I knew he was. Like my mother always said, we couldn't expect him to suddenly know right from wrong or to stop doing things that greatly damaged his health—or whatever was left of it by now. 

          I also knew I sounded like the worst sister on the entire planet, but I still thought he needed to be held accountable for his actions. After the miserable summer I'd had, stuck in Sacramento for three months because of him, after the miserable years of my life I'd spent watching him go in and out of hospitals and clinics, I was slowly reaching my breaking point.

          He'd fuck up, I'd clean up the mess, then he'd apologize. He'd swear he would never ever do it again and we'd all believe him. Rinse. Repeat.

          Huffing through my mouth, so I wouldn't inhale the smell, I opened the faucet. The water gurgled inside the sink, easily blocking out Jordan's voice, and my fingers clenched around the bottle. It was one of those expensive ones, something I'd never consider spending my salary on, and there I was, emptying the entire thing.

          "I don't know how long I can keep doing this, Jo," I eventually said. To keep my sanity, I also had to keep my back turned to him. The kitchen spun around me like a carousel, the bright-yellow cabinets blurring. "I feel like we're going in circles."

          "I don't know what to do," he whispered, voice slurring. I sniffled, throwing out the bottle. Everything was so quiet I could hear him breathing, even from the opposite end of the room. "I don't know what to do anymore."

          It took me half an eternity to find the courage to face him.

          In theory, in blood, the carcass of a man sitting at the kitchen table was my brother, all right. Jordan Wu. I'd known him all my life, yet he had never looked more like a stranger to me than he currently did.

          His cheeks were sunken into his skull, which, compared to the empty eyes, dark circles, and ashen skin, made him look like a corpse. Staying at my parents' house during the summer meant I had to see him every day and seeing him every day meant witnessing his decay—day after day after day.

          The days quickly faded into one another, imprisoning me in an unhealthy routine of searching the entire house for hidden bottles of alcohol, invading my brother's privacy, and pretending I don't feel disgusted with the entire situation. I was the one who had to listen to him scream from the top of his lungs that he hated me, that I was ruining his life.

          Everyone kept telling me he didn't mean it. He wasn't the one saying those things. He wasn't in control.

          I was supposed to be the one in control of all the emotions that came pouring out of me whenever those things happened. I was supposed to not be hurt. I was supposed to compartmentalize it and not let it get to me.