Colors swirl, images flow and ebb. I'm sinking.
My father wakes me up before dawn. Saturday. That means Carpen, again. I struggle to open my eyes, stumble over my legs. The ground rushes up to meet me. I catch myself at the last second. I'm wide-eyed. My mouth tastes like vomit. I breathe out, swallow hard.
"Stand up, William," he says, even though I am already standing. He holds my arm, his grip unyielding. I don't flinch, but it takes every shred of patience I have left not to pull it away in disgust. His grip stiffens my resolve: I despise my father.
I put my hands on my hips and wait.
"What did I tell you last night?" I run my palms over my chest, the cold giving me goosebumps.
I pretend I'm more sleepy than I am as I mumble a collection of words I know have no meaning. He doesn't explain himself (I didn't expect him to).
He lets go of my arm roughly.
"Well, you know I'm going back to Carpen this morning, so you and your brother should cancel any plans you may have today because you both are going for the Youth Program this evening."
My heart plummets, but I can't look away from my feet. The word no threatens to force its way out of my mouth, but I swallow it. Sigh. He is quiet for a moment.
I look up at him; he looks away, scratching his jaw. He looks like he wants to say something but cuts himself off and walks out with a sigh. His lips are a thin line.
I'm left annoyed with myself. Angry.
I sink into my bed again. I'm asleep before I can form another thought.
~
The second time I wake, the sun is hot against my face, the brightness blinding. I stretch, feeling like all my bones are disjointed.
The smell of food fills me with memories—Spaghetti Bolognese. My mother, leading me into the kitchen, her soft hand cleaning my tears.
Her voice a whisper: "Blow your nose into this, Liam." Holding out a Kleenex, she would kiss my forehead. "Don't cry again, my baby. It's all over now."
The kitchen always felt safe. My father and Jotham never hit me in there, they never even entered.
It was the one place we'd take care of each other. She'd clean my bruises and feed me, the sweet and savoury heat of the Spaghetti making me forget my tears. I'd tell her stories to distract myself from the pain, while she taught me her grandmother's recipes.
Until I stopped crying after my father hit me, and raised my hand to defend myself against my brother. She'd come to me and I would turn away, angry at her for a reason I couldn't yet name. Angry at the food, angry at how she'd look away from me until he was gone.
We never hug anymore, I always pretend I don't want to. Growing up has a way of pulling you away from your parents, pulling you into yourself.
I roll into a sitting position and head downstairs. The house is filled with the hushed voice of Roberta Flack singing my mother's favourite song.
My mother is an image to behold, her long hair swinging as she dances while washing the dishes. "Morning, mum."
Her eyes hold mine, "You've missed the Youth Program."
We grin like co-conspirators. For a second it feels like we are on the same side again, against everyone else. Her laugh echoes.
Our house is built on a hill; perhaps it is for this reason that it contains so many hidden corners. It's easy to sit in a shadowed corner and overhear people talk badly about the things you value most, and by extension, you. The juxtaposition of openness and secrecy is jarring after a while.
Jotham appears from behind the kitchen door. I am suddenly cold. His face is hard, a mixture of disgust and disapproval.
For a moment I am transported back to when I was seven and desperate for his approval—cowering in a corner of his room, holding my ears closed. His friends begging him to let me stay for a little while.
I whisper hello, and his scowl deepens.
I go out into the hallway, my heartbeat suddenly audible. The walls are closing in on me.
I pull at my shirt. I'm not a little boy anymore. I'm not scared of my brother.
~
Later, I sit on my bed waiting for the long hand of the clock in my room to hit 12, so I can start preparing to go to church.
My phone rings. Jasmine. I don't know how I will explain that my father has prevented another date of ours. I finally answer on the third ring.
"Hi, baby," her voice syrupy sweet. I cut to the chase.
"I won't be able to make it today."
"Okay." Her voice is small. Disappointed, tired. I feel my insides twist in regret.
I close my eyes. Should I tell her the truth?
"Won't you ask why?"
She squeaks out a no. I pause, surprised.
She continues, her voice venomous, unrecognisable, "I don't even care anymore. Honestly, it's always something with you."
This is the third time in as many weeks I've cancelled a date. The second time it's because of my father.
"If you don't want to be with me just say that."
"Of course I want t—"
She's hung up.
~
The Youth Program hangs over my head. I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter when Jotham comes to my room and stands, silent, at the foot of my bed. I dress slowly.
I wish I were with Jasmine. Resentment is crawling up my arms, slithering its way around my neck.
I imagine myself walking downstairs, entering Jotham's car, sitting in familiar silence till we get to church. Searching the crowd at church for a friendly face and finding none I care about.
When we arrive I head straight to the back. My brother sits with his usual crew of goody-two-shoes. Involved.
I am so fixated on my phone that I don't notice when someone slides up beside me and says hello. They tap me.
It is a boy. Tall, I notice even though he is sitting. Broad-shouldered. Soft brown eyes.