Broken Compass

The thought of sitting up makes my stomach roil worse, but I do it anyway. The fumes of the bleach sure aren’t helping. “Screw you.”

She grimaces, and it makes her eyes narrow, those blue eyes so similar to mine. “Thought so. You’re such a bastard, West.”

No doubt about that.

I watch her go, hunched over myself, feeling cold and sick and old. Older than her, though she has at least ten, twelve years on me, if not more.

Strange how I don’t know all that much about my own sister. I don’t know much about anything. I wonder sometimes if all families are like that, and then I call myself an idiot, because of course no other family is like mine.

If I can call this a family.

I was a mistake, as both Della and Grandpa never fail to remind me. A bad mistake, one that ruined their lives, though they never elaborate on how. They’ve never told me who my parents are, where my mother is. Who she is. Is she related to Grandpa? If Della’s eyes didn’t look so much like mine, I’d think I was adopted.

Grandpa waved a picture at me once, claiming that was my mom, but later he denied the existence of such a photo. Much like my existence, that of my mom is dubious, unverified.

Unwanted.

With a groan, I get back on my aching knees, grab the bucket and brush and get back to work.

Dimly aware of a ringing sound that’s been going on for a while, I put down the brush and listen.

Here it comes again.

The doorbell.

Where’s Grandpa? Trying to orient myself in space and time, I sit back on my heels and think. The old clock on the kitchen wall says it’s eight PM. Della left hours ago.

What day is it?

That takes a bit longer to figure out. Thursday. Yeah, pretty sure of that, and Grandpa is probably playing cards with his friends down the street. I’m alone in the apartment.

With someone leaning on the doorbell like the end of the world is at hand.

Getting to my feet is harder than I expected. Truth is, today was harder than usual, and not because of the encounter with my sister. No, that’s normal. It’s as if I can’t get out of my head today, no matter how hard I try. And it’s been getting worse.

As I stumble toward the door, my vision swimming, I keep thinking I’ll never puzzle this out. Who I am. Why I am the way I am. What I want. How it all ends.

But then I open the door and a missing piece of the puzzle is right there.

Sydney.

The wave of relief her presence brings me almost brings me back to my knees. “Syd.”

“West.” Her face is a pale blur. I hold on to the door and wonder why I can’t feel my feet. So weird. “West, are you okay?”

I shake my head, or I think I do, and then I’m going down, and all I can think of is, she’s here, and I can let go.

I’m sitting with my back to the wall, Sydney’s arms around me, holding me down as dream images chase one another inside my head.

&nb

sp; Bloody hands. Contorted faces. Broken bodies.

Vomit. Tears. A wind stirring decomposing leaves. Dead eyes, wide open.

“West.” She shakes me. I think she’s done it several times already since she arrived. There’s a hint of hysteria in her voice. “I said talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

That gets through to my shivery mind. “Sorry, Syd.”