and his food spilled across the floor. He tasted pennies. His ears rang.
Fucking Christ, he punched me!
His mother stood over him, her hands pressed against his father’s chest. The old man trembled, his fist clenched so tight that his fingernails bit into his palm and blood leaked out over his knuckles.
“YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” Spittle flew. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
Mike crawled to the staircase, stood, ran to his room, and locked his door behind him. He sat on his bed and listened to his father scream, his mother try to calm him. Eventually the front door slammed and his father’s car sped off.
He felt like crying. Yet a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt guilty for what he had said to his father, but it was the truth.
His mother knocked on the door. He moved to it slowly, deliberately, like he waded through mounds of sand. He knew what was coming and watched it all from somewhere outside of himself. His world was ending.
Not ending. Changing. Everything would be different from here on out.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
She cried as she told him his father wanted him out of the house. They hugged and then she went to her room. Mike knew she was draining the contents of the whiskey bottle hidden in her underwear drawer.
He grabbed a bag and shoved clothes inside. When the bag was full he looked around for a suitcase. He thought one was in his closet, but then it hit him: it was in Allison’s room.
They hadn’t taken a trip since before she died. She had borrowed his suitcase for a gymnastics weekend in D.C. a few months earlier and hadn’t given it back before everything happened.
He tiptoed across the hall and stopped in front of Allison’s door. His mother cried behind her own door as he stared at the dusty outlines of old posters long ago pulled down from his sister’s door and boxed away. He hadn’t been inside in years. He wondered if it looked the same. He knew his mother cleaned it top to bottom every Friday, but he didn’t know how many of his sister’s things were still inside.
He took a deep breath and turned the knob.
A pale sliver of moonlight limped through the window and fell across the bed. He was startled by how much the room conformed to his memories. The brass bed with red sheets poking out from beneath a vanilla comforter. The scented candles lining the shelves and filling the room with a subtle hint of rose. The posters of Olympians, musicians, and poets.
It was like a dream of better days, a hazy memory fighting its way through the cold that had claimed the home and bringing a bit of warmth back. It was a fragile thing and Mike knew if he clutched at it that it would shatter.
He sat on his sister’s bed. It was warm and comfortable. It felt like home.
He hoped he had made the right decision.
* * *
The bottle of wine slipped from Eileen’s fingers and clanked onto the concrete.
“Shit.”
It bounced once before rolling away. She sat the two bags of food on her trunk and bent to grab it, one hand holding her black dress down to avoid revealing herself. She snatched the bottle up and found a small space in one of the bags where she could shove the neck.
She checked everything one last time before heading up the stairs to Dennis’ building. She had planned the evening when she first heard he was moving. She was making lasagna, followed by a chocolate and peanut butter pie. The bottle of wine was a favorite she had developed a taste for during a summer spent with her family in Tuscany and the black dress was slick and revealing.
“Need a hand?”
She hadn’t heard anyone approach and jumped. She turned to see a tall, thin man in a black shirt and jeans. He had dark, wavy hair and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He smiled.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
“Oh. It’s all right. This place is just a little creepy. Especially at dusk.”
“Sure is. Let me give you a hand.”
She handed him one of the bags. “Thanks.
Fucking Christ, he punched me!
His mother stood over him, her hands pressed against his father’s chest. The old man trembled, his fist clenched so tight that his fingernails bit into his palm and blood leaked out over his knuckles.
“YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” Spittle flew. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
Mike crawled to the staircase, stood, ran to his room, and locked his door behind him. He sat on his bed and listened to his father scream, his mother try to calm him. Eventually the front door slammed and his father’s car sped off.
He felt like crying. Yet a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt guilty for what he had said to his father, but it was the truth.
His mother knocked on the door. He moved to it slowly, deliberately, like he waded through mounds of sand. He knew what was coming and watched it all from somewhere outside of himself. His world was ending.
Not ending. Changing. Everything would be different from here on out.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
She cried as she told him his father wanted him out of the house. They hugged and then she went to her room. Mike knew she was draining the contents of the whiskey bottle hidden in her underwear drawer.
He grabbed a bag and shoved clothes inside. When the bag was full he looked around for a suitcase. He thought one was in his closet, but then it hit him: it was in Allison’s room.
They hadn’t taken a trip since before she died. She had borrowed his suitcase for a gymnastics weekend in D.C. a few months earlier and hadn’t given it back before everything happened.
He tiptoed across the hall and stopped in front of Allison’s door. His mother cried behind her own door as he stared at the dusty outlines of old posters long ago pulled down from his sister’s door and boxed away. He hadn’t been inside in years. He wondered if it looked the same. He knew his mother cleaned it top to bottom every Friday, but he didn’t know how many of his sister’s things were still inside.
He took a deep breath and turned the knob.
A pale sliver of moonlight limped through the window and fell across the bed. He was startled by how much the room conformed to his memories. The brass bed with red sheets poking out from beneath a vanilla comforter. The scented candles lining the shelves and filling the room with a subtle hint of rose. The posters of Olympians, musicians, and poets.
It was like a dream of better days, a hazy memory fighting its way through the cold that had claimed the home and bringing a bit of warmth back. It was a fragile thing and Mike knew if he clutched at it that it would shatter.
He sat on his sister’s bed. It was warm and comfortable. It felt like home.
He hoped he had made the right decision.
* * *
The bottle of wine slipped from Eileen’s fingers and clanked onto the concrete.
“Shit.”
It bounced once before rolling away. She sat the two bags of food on her trunk and bent to grab it, one hand holding her black dress down to avoid revealing herself. She snatched the bottle up and found a small space in one of the bags where she could shove the neck.
She checked everything one last time before heading up the stairs to Dennis’ building. She had planned the evening when she first heard he was moving. She was making lasagna, followed by a chocolate and peanut butter pie. The bottle of wine was a favorite she had developed a taste for during a summer spent with her family in Tuscany and the black dress was slick and revealing.
“Need a hand?”
She hadn’t heard anyone approach and jumped. She turned to see a tall, thin man in a black shirt and jeans. He had dark, wavy hair and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He smiled.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
“Oh. It’s all right. This place is just a little creepy. Especially at dusk.”
“Sure is. Let me give you a hand.”
She handed him one of the bags. “Thanks.
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