Page Numbers

8- Nathaniel

Ah, it's nice to smell fried chicken every night.

This is what makes you obese, seriously.

I'm not yet, don't hurt my feelings.

I'm basically designed to hurt your feelings. I'm your conscience, for God's sake.

Well that's nice to know.

But in all seriousness, if you're hungry, do what you want, go downstairs, mingle with the family for once.

How can I mingle if they are pretty much avoiding eye contact with me?

Does it look like a care?

You're not visible. How can I tell if you care or not? You don't even have a face. You're just...

A figment of your imagination? Is that all I am to you?

You sound mad...

Oh, you think?! I'm only mad because clearly you keep disregarding me and keep thinking I'm just some useless voice in your head. Whenever I try to help you, you just...

Why are you yelling at me? What did I ever do to you?

Like you don't know. Good luck trying to survive without me.

Nathan? Nathan! Don't leave my thoughts! You know I'm just joking when I say I didn't need your help. I mean, come on. You SHOULD KNOW what I'm thinking!

Hello?

"Nat, you there?" My mother, Julie, yells through my closed door, the wood muffling her voice, "I heard screams from your room, is everything alright?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." I yell back, "Nathan just left."

"Oh." She said that so blatantly it's almost ignorant. Whenever I talk about Nathan around my family, no one dares to look at me until the subject's changed. "Well, honey, you're going to miss out on dinner. You need to eat."

I might as well eat dinner, it pains to skip a meal every now and then. "Okay."

I stand up - I didn't realise I was sitting on the floor until my legs warmed up - and leave my room. As soon as I exit into the hallway, I feel a chill roll down my back. It feels strangely empty in my room. I will myself not to think of N-

I shouldn't even say his name.

I walk downstairs and sit at the corner of the dining table, conveniently placed between the living area and the kitchen. The TV's on and I'm guessing the show is Serial Crime.

...What am I waiting for...?

Oh. I'm waiting to be corrected. But by who?

"Dad, what's on TV right now?" I ask, as he sips his coffee.

"I'm not really sure, ask your mother," he says, as soon as his cup is set on the table.

I ask mom the same question, to which she replies, "I believe it's Serial Crime, Nathaniel." She turns to hide a small grin, then wipes her cheek. I wonder why?

I haven't heard that in a while, and asking my parents questions he could answer is a rather strange sensation. It's so alien and unfamiliar.

"Nat, I want you to be on your best behaviour tonight. A co-worker and his daughter are coming over for dinner."

"Who are they?" Again, these simple questions don't seem right coming from my mouth.

"The Nixons. Be nice to them, especially the girl."

"Alright."

I wait silently for 10 minutes, and then dinner's ready. I help set the table for five people, and then the doorbell rings.

"Nat, get the door," my Dad says.

I run to the main hall, and stop just before my face hits the oak door. I peer through the stained glass window and see two figures, a tall male and a shorter female. They both have similar eyes, green with honey and blue bits here and there. The girl has long blonde locks, almost frizzy. It's so loose that I doubt she even bothered tying it up. Her beautiful features are dotted with freckles here and there, adding a quirky side to her beauty. She seems kind, but fragile. The man has similar features, like eyes and hair, but his lined face exudes so much anger that it's almost scary.

"We can see you." The girl's voice startles me. "Are you going to let us in, or...?"

I swing the door open. "Sorry. Please, come in." I lead them down the dim-lit hall, close the door and follow them to the set table.

"Jonathan! Welcome to our humble abode," my dad says loudly.

"Pleasure to be here," Mr Nixon says, his scowl almost curving the other way into a smile. "Meet my daughter, Katherine."

"Pleased to meet you." I say, shaking her hand. In succession, my parents' do the same.

"Please, sit," Mom says. "Dinner's ready."

Yes, it is delicious, favourable, stomach-filling. I mean, fried chicken, dinner rolls, a slice of ice cream cake. It's pretty much just a lot of carbs and fats and sugars that I can't resist the temptation of.

Ten minutes later, I am stuffed.

"I'm so full..." I say, groaning. I look up from my plate, my eyes shifting to each face on the table. But when I look at Katie, our eyes stay in contact for what feels like a good three minutes.

And then my brain hurts.

"Argh. Will you guys... excuse me for a minute...?" I say, clutching my temple.

I rush to the bathroom with a glass of water, and lock the door.

The pain throbs more and more by the nanosecond.

"Nat, are you okay?" My parents seem worried, I'm not sure. I'm just focused on keeping my brain from exploding.

I open the medicine cabinet - the banging on the door deafening me - and reach for a Panadol. I swallow the pain reliever, washing it away with water.

The pain is gone for a complete, still, eerie minute.

And then I collapse.

***