Broken Compass

The apartment door is slightly open, but I don’t pay it that much attention. Grandpa often leaves it open when he comes home, and fuck, I hope he didn’t lose all his money playing cards today, or he’ll be in a hell of a mood.

He’s been playing—and losing—a lot more lately, and there’s this worry at the back of my mind that one day he won’t have money for the rent. Della doesn’t work. Never has. It’s time I got a job. After all, I’m almost done with school.

Maybe I’ll move away, to another city, another town, far from here.

I entertain the notion for a few pleasant moments, but discard it as I step through the door. I know I can’t leave. It’s the same reason that kept me here, preventing me from following Nate, Syd and Kash the first time.

“Grandpa?” I call out. The living room is empty. “I’m gonna make dinner. You there?”

The quiet is … complete. It’s unnerving. I cross the room, and stop, hit by the thought that someone else may be inside, and not Grandpa.

Someone like Nate’s dad.

Er, shit? From the few things I’ve gathered about Nate’s dad, I should be running away.

But I’m strangely calm. After the panic that held me all afternoon, ever since Nate walked out, it’s as if my body can’t muster any more adrenaline. Besides, what if Grandpa or Della are in there, too?

I look around for a potential weapon and grab a heavy vase from the table. Armed with that, I step toward the bedrooms and open Grandpa’s bedroom door.

Empty. His bed is unmade, the covers twisted. Empty bottles lining the wall.

Feeling slightly ridiculous with the vase in my hands, I shrug and move on. I check my bedroom—empty—and finally kick at Della’s bedroom door and enter, just to make sure.

I blink.

My breath is stuck in my lungs. My blood starts pounding so hard in my ears I can hear no other sound, even as the vase slips from my hand and crashes to the floor, shattering to pieces.

Della. She’s lying on the floor, body curled in, dark hair fanning around her face. Her face is still and gray. The room stinks of vomit and piss, and something else, something terrible.

No.

I’m a kid again. It’s a déjà vu from many years ago, when I found her just like this, on the floor.

But she’d been alive then. She’d made it. Judging from the way her chest is so still… I think this time she’s dead.

I eventually move forward, when all I want is to leave, get as far away from this room as possible. Hide.

I make myself approach her, my sister, kneel by her side, avoiding the puddles of vomit and piss, and check for a pulse. Check in case I’m mistaken and she’s alive.

No pulse. I can’t feel a fucking pulse. Or a breath from her mouth. Her skin is cold. Icy. I doubt CPR would help her now.

She’s… she’s so cold. I sit back on my ass, on the floor, my hands clenching. Breathe, West, I tell myself. Fucking breathe.

I should call an ambulance.

Or the police.

What the fuck should I do? What does one do?

A shadow fills the door and I jerk back. But it’s only Grandpa. “She’s… dead,” I whisper, needing him to say something, put me right, tell me I’m wrong.

“She is.” His face is set in harsh, angry lines. “Dead and gone.”

“You…” I frown. Nothing makes sense. “Did you… do this? Did you kill her?” I can’t get enough air. My lungs don’t want to work.

“Me? You killed her. You weren’t here, like always. Like last time. You let her die.” The sneer in his voice, on his face, his godfucking words stab me deep. They’re killing me. “Your fault.”

“I just… I went for a walk.”