Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Jaeson sighed. He'd just spent the better part of the night trying to sleep despite the pain in his abdomen, but he knew it was all but impossible once a thunderstorm began. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed through the darkness, beckoning him to check it. Three a.m. was later than he would have guessed. "Two entire hours," he thought. "A new record."
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Jaeson clutched his stomach and winced with pain as burdensome memories flooded his mind. This was an all too common occurrence, though usually, the memories were of the petty bullying he'd suffered at school, as they were the most present. But on this night, his thoughts were consumed by the accident. It happened six years before when Jaeson was only twelve. Jaeson was in the passenger seat as his father drove too fast in the middle of a storm, just like this one. In a freakishly surreal scene, like out of a movie or a comic book, a bolt of lightning hit a telephone pole just up the road ahead of them, startling the driver of an oncoming box truck. Jaeson had somehow avoided any injuries; however, his father was left broken and mangled. Jaeson could never forget those piercing eyes frozen in terror as they stared right through him.
He was a prisoner in those moments. The memories dominated his senses, sending him into a tailspin of self-hatred. Now fully conscious, he could take his time ruminating over the accident and imagine all the ways it was his fault. If only Jaeson hadn't snuck out and ridden his bike to Twilight Hill that evening to watch the sunset. He couldn't even remember why he'd gone in the first place. Pulse after pulse of electric fire shot down his spine to punctuate every recurring rumination of that fateful night. Even though he ought to be used to this by now, the sheer force of it always managed to surprise him, always worse than the time before. The doctors assured him that his pain was 'all in his head,' that he just needed to deal with the trauma, and it would go away. But that was easier said than done.
He threw off his covers and swung his legs off the side of the bed. At moments like this, when his body and mind screamed in agony, he'd learned to submit to it. He would stare out the vast circular window in his attic bedroom and pray that whatever was wrong with him would finally put him out of his misery. Fighting these feelings was useless and only prolonged his suffering. He sat there brooding for almost an hour, watching the storm, hoping for an end, one way or another.
At one point, the thunder boomed so loud it rattled the house and knocked out the power. And there, in the dark, Jaeson felt a familiar, comforting presence. While he couldn't see her this time, he could feel her hand in his. He held on tight, squeezing as the pain washed over him. She was always calm and passive and never said anything but was always there when the pain was at its worst. Usually, her presence meant the episode was on its way out. Sure enough, the pain eased as his raw nerves ran out of the chemicals they needed to produce more. But it never truly stopped. It was always there, lurking. Waiting. And the girl was gone.
He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and opened his calendar. In the corner of each day's square was an emoji to signify how well the day went. If one were to check previous years, they'd see a more varied selection, ranging from neutral to frowny to crying. But the past few months had only one emoji: a person drowning. Though it was very early in the day, he didn't have high hopes and added the drowner without much thought. Then he noticed the date and let out an ironic chuckle. Today was his eighteenth birthday. He'd forgotten, somehow.
His stomach growled with the familiar hunger pangs. They were sometimes hard to discern through his episodes, and he often went too long without eating. He grabbed an electric lantern from the shelf over his computer desk and went to the third floor, through the hall to the main stairwell, and down three floors to the kitchen. The Everhart estate was an old Victorian house built in the eighteen hundreds. It had been remodeled several times over the centuries, being modernized along the way. It was once a landmark in the town of Stafford, being one of the oldest buildings in the state. It was large, welcoming, and well-appointed, with expensive furnishings, fancy paintings, and other rare art objects from around the world, all collected by the Everhart clan over many decades. But ever since his father died and his creditors came calling, most everything of value had been sold off. Most rooms were unused, their remaining contents covered in protective cloths, and their doors shut tight to discourage occupancy, thereby saving electricity. Since his sister, Ana Rin, left for college several years prior, the house felt drafty, decrepit, and empty.
Jaeson crept down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. His mother worked long hours as a nurse at Stafford General, often in the late evening, and knowing how precious sleep was to him, he did his best to let her have as much as she could get. With the power cut, the house was dark and silent, making the storm outside sound even more prominent. Though Jaeson had lived in that house his entire life, even he would admit it could be spooky at times.
Upon reaching the ground floor, Jaeson could see a light coming from the kitchen and knew what it was immediately. He rounded the corner, and sure enough, there was his mother, Valerina, still in her favorite cranberry-colored scrubs, passed out at the breakfast table with an empty bottle of wine next to her open laptop. He approached cautiously so as to not startle her and rubbed her back gently. As she slowly came to, Jaeson took a peek at the screen and saw that it was open to her bank accounts. She was in the middle of paying bills when she fell asleep.
However, many of them had gone to collections, with some reading "past due" or "respond immediately." It was his fault they were in so much debt. His condition couldn't be diagnosed, and the insurance company wouldn't cover treatment. She worked herself ragged to make ends meet, but she couldn't afford the taxes on the land, let alone pay yet more doctors to evaluate Jaeson and find nothing. They were in an unsustainable situation, and they knew it. And yet, his mother refused to sell the house. When asked, she'd laughed off what she considered a silly notion. This house belonged to her late husband. His memory lingered there like the faintest smell of woodsmoke from a cozy fireplace; she'd never give it up.
Valerina held her head and groaned before noticing his presence. "Oh... good morning, sweetheart," she said as she yawned. "Couldn't sleep?"
Jaeson set the lantern down on the table and switched to her shoulders. "I got a little, but... ya know," he said, shrugging.
"Yeah, I know, love," she said. She rested her forehead in her hand and asked, "Would you get me something for my headache?"
"Sure," he said. He grabbed the pain reliever from the cupboard and poured her a glass of water. "What's the occasion?" he asked while motioning toward the empty bottle.
"I got it for you. For your birthday. But I guess I got a little impatient." She picked up the bottle and shook it, realized it was empty, and sighed. "Happy Birthday."