Charlie Sinclair -- District Seven [FIN]

[/i]


One, two, three, four, five. What do you see? Sunday mornings are for dresses. Church bell rings. The priest speaks but you listen to the birds outside. Papa, can I play outside? After, honey, after. After comes. Nadia's in pigtails. Peter's smiling. Smile. Two front teeth missing. One pudgy little finger to point out the colorful bird perched on the branch. Pretty, very pretty.


It's been a month since Nadia has told us about her leaving, and by three in the afternoon she was ready to go with Simon, who was talking to her in the front porch. It's only so easy to sneak around this house like a ghost, and I go to her room. She packs her suitcases well. They're piled on top of each other, sitting on her bed, sheets already folded and clean off of the telltale signs of life - the tousled sheets, little valleys embedded on the foam from when she lay too long. They're gone, and so were the trinkets she had lying around, the ceramic figurines we painted as children and the occasional medal of some accomplishment hanging by one of her bed posts.

The walls were finished, the smooth new coat were free from all the marks she could've made from moving around furniture and hitting the wall too hard with the edge, scraping a little bit of paint in the process. It's as if - it's exactly like an invisible hand has swiped across the canvas of her room and along with it, took away her existence and the little pieces that came with it. My hands clench into a fist then uncurls, finally lifting itself to flick open the top luggage. It's all full of papers and notebooks and envelopes scattered and piled together, and I shut it, finding nothing remarkable and worried she'd catch me going through her stuff when I didn't mean to. She hates it when I do that, even more when I use her clothes instead of my own. She won't have a problem with that, though, when she leaves. Won't be long enough.

"Nothing special here." She appears right beside me, locking the clasps in place with a loud snap, but her voice doesn't hold any hard edge her face tends to have when she catches me in her room. But this time, she turns to me and smiles, placing her hand under my chin and lifting it a little. I hate it when she does that, like she's examining me of some sort.

"You'll be fine?"

I'm not sure, but I nod anyway.




I don't think I'm lasting long, Charlie, but I'll be the first one to say that the world will not be kind. It will grow hands just to rip away the flowers you clutch in your grasp, pull at your hair to let those pieces you stuck behind your ear fall. You are part water, and there are times when you're driven to upturn yourself until your eyes are dry and red. There's a lake not far away from here. Stay away from it. Life is a ball of fire and your hands will be filled with burns and even picking flower stems will hurt, but learn to love it. Water will take you before you realize you've drowned.[/i]


Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Count them. Learnt your numbers, I'm proud. What's after ten? I don't know, we're not yet there yet. Braided hair makes you feel so pretty. Look in the mirror. Am I pretty to Mama? I'm sure Mama thinks you're the prettiest girl around. Shined, bright, new. New dresses. Plaid and flower print. I like flowers. I like my two new teeth, up at front. Raise your hand when you know the answer. My teacher tells me I'm good. The playground's nice. The girls are not so much. Picked off my flowers. Pulled off my braids. Says I rise my hand too much. What's wrong, Charlie? Before you knew the tables. No, ma'am. I don't.


Peter tells me he'll take care of me, but I'm used to him. He says those kind of things all the time, and although I'm sure his breath is acid with the bottle he twists around his fingertips his smile remains sweet, like a little curved line that tips at the edges. He's seventeen and I'm sixteen, forever falling one step behind him, in age and perhaps more than that. He knows a lot more than I do, even though I've cracked more spines of books and I'm certain the yellowed pages not only hold words but my own fingertips over the years, but his easy gait and easy smile makes me think he's got the world figured out.

There used to be a time when we were children and those girls would pick on me again. Peter'd always find a way to get them to go away, but then those girls had elder brothers too, and they were a lot bigger and stronger than him so he'd end up with a cut lip and a black eye to nurse back home. There used to be a time when we were children and I think we still are, when Peter comes back with bruises as dark as the sky all over his body. He tells me it's alright, even laughs it off, but I treat them for him anyway, because I have to and I want to and Papa sure won't do it. He's far off in his own world now, and I think he thinks more of my mother than he does of us. But it's impossible to care when I don't think I even know him, not anymore.


Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. What's wrong, Charlie? Nothing, sir, nothing. Is that book nice? Yes. Keeps me company. I've got friends but sometimes they forget about me. Am I easy to miss? I used to like smiles, but they look at me and smile to themselves and now I'm not sure how I feel whenever someone looks at me. Is there something on me? Dirt? I don't know. The books don't, but at least they only use their mouths to speak. That's a pretty dress, Charlie, but why's the hem so short? Why do you spend so much time inside you room? What do you do? I heard crying last night, Charlie. Was that you? Charlie, open the door. I said open the door, Charlie. Charliecharliecharlie.


Sixteen. They no longer talk to me. I've forgotten their names. Scratch that, they've forgotten me. Mug-ring coffee stains. Nothing else. Cavern, hollowed flesh. Skin tugged tight and thin over bones. Protruding. Thighs, be kind and don't touch. Enough? Not yet. Porcelain bowl. The bathroom's dull glow reflecting off ceramic tiles. Then red. And another. Red, red, red. Blade's lip stained red, falls like raindrops on the floor. Is it raining outside? No, just footsteps. Footsteps passing by. Footsteps of what used to pounding fists over wood trying to break in symphony with hands curled on head. Is there someone inside there, Charlie? Talks too loud, can't hear yourself scream? Gaunt cheeks, golden strands. Sweaters for hugs, sweaters to cover scars. A book. A cup of coffee. Nothing more.

Am I pretty now?

Pretty enough.

[/font][/justify][/color][/size][/blockquote][/td][/tr][/table]

[/center]