isa. d3 wip

isa. d3 wip Mar 2, 2018 21:21:42 GMT -5

Post by calla on Mar 2, 2018 21:21:42 GMT -5

— i .

"D'you believe in God, kid?"

They could never get me to talk much while he was gone; selectively mute as long as it meant our list of truths stayed buried - chicken scratch hidden away in heavy tomes. A blind eye; cracked lenses and turning away, trying to find a hazy memory in the fog. Everything gets softer around the edges that way - everything stays hidden. And it made living easier.

I used to carve out an answer into the back of a pew instead, choking on scripture and holy words - i think so i think so i think so.

Because it's not like the answer could have been no anyways, not with Naomi sitting on my lap and Silas babbling his mouth off next to us. Some kind of motionless puppet, operating under a higher power, and I pretended for them, even if they were too young to know the difference between Panem and purgatory.

They never had to worry about that.

I remember the wooden bench that smelled like lemon varnish and pine, the one that hurt my back and made it ache in tune to the syllables of Silas's drone. It was early hours, misty air and cutting light, and he wouldn't stop telling me all about the scary lady that lived down the street; cough drops and childhood fears and "I think she's some kinda monster, Isa, the kind that eats puppies and all of Mi's candy. But when Jo gets back he's gonna save us, right?"

Ripred I hope so -

I never knew what to tell him - how to admit that Jo wasn't coming back because Jo couldn't come back. ( Admit to how he came through the side door every night because I was weak, a bruise of a boy who could never say no to him. ) I only held Naomi tighter, tight against my chest like a lifeline when she tried to hit Silas, a million excuses in my head and all of them melting behind my teeth, sugary sweet lies dripping from my chin but they tasted wrong - broken and acidic. "I'll save you, Sil, don't worry."

"Mmh nah, I want Jo to. He promised he would."

He made a lot of promises.

I was eleven and they were eight, carbon copies of innocence, and I drew a veil over their eyes with purple crayons and fairytales. I held their sticky hands and wiped their eyes, did more than Jo ever could - you'll be okay, okay?

Because they would always ask,

"Isa, I'm hungry, where's Jo?"
"When's Jo coming back Isa, I don't wanna go to school."

And I tried - "He'll be back soon, okay? Let me take care of it instead." I stitched them up and put them to bed and made them lunch, everything that a good big brother would do - I tried. But Joseph was always the better one, a hero in the bedtime story of our lives, and I remember secretly pulling my hair out every time they asked about him, question after question, because who fucking cared anymore.

But I used to care. Fuck, I cared so damn much.

I cared about every word that came out of his mouth, my own personal gospel, and it didn't even matter that sometimes he'd mix up his words and call me someone else's name. It didn't matter that he couldn't walk straight anymore or remember how old I was because he was my hero and that meant he was untouchable.

"I've gotta go away for a little bit, so that means you've gotta take care of the twins, alright Isa?"

Okay."Okay." Okay.

He was like a god -

"Don't say that, Isaiah.
Don't idolize a sinner."

I never understood what they meant. But there was something so rotten there, hanging like ivy and creeping it's way into our walls, poisonous, and he welcomed with open arms. I registered the cold as his presence, something chilling and natural, and didn't even think twice about the pollution he attracted when the door was propped open, how it made the windows sweat and the room flood with the summer heat.

I only saw the light in his eyes and gazed at the stars in his smile, savoured the time he took to laugh. I didn't need friends or a father or a life when I had a brother like Jo, even if he did leave and change with the weather. Nomadic; I always thought there was an adventurer in his soul, before I knew better, I thought there was something great in him that whispered to run and never look back.

He came back on time for my birthday once, gave me a piece of grimy paper with the number 10 printed on it and for two whole minutes, it didn't matter that it left some kind of residue on my fingers, defacing the patterns on my skin. Cracked lenses and galaxies in his speech, it didn't matter that this was the only birthday he showed up for in years. I only cared that he was there; that he had remembered me.

( I knew he was busy - he said so all the time, an old recitation, he said that was why he couldn't make it to mass anymore and why he missed the twin's dance recital at the orphanage last month. I was always understanding. I was always a good brother. )

But this time, he was there. A bright flare in the backdrop of peeling wallpaper and dying house plants, shining like something out of a picture book.

A whole two minutes.

And then the old clock in the kitchen went off, ticking steady like a heartbeat, and he looked so sad when I caught his eyes, something stuck in them that made me feel like the oxygen in the room had dissipated, like I had fallen backwards and hit my head against the floorboards.. I remember it in a blur, being struck with something close to vertigo and feeling my spine bend in half from the weight of it. I remember standing on sea legs and shaking the paper in his face, stumbling over words, tripping on questions, because I was never good at that sort of thing "What's this?" And I remember being so afraid of how my voice shook, of how his hands rose to match the frequency, "Jo, what is this?"

But Joseph was already fifteen and he said it was my imagination, resolute when he closed his eyes and sat back on the couch.

So I believed him.

For two whole minutes.

"I need money." He said from a shadow, voice low and granite-like, and when I looked over from the floor he didn't open his eyes.

I had never sworn before, but I wanted to and the words sat like rust on my tongue, a splintering of a dam. Jo just tapped his foot and waited, kept his eyes shut like Silas did when he pretended to be asleep. I wanted to scream, at him or because of him, something in between I don't know. There was an exhalation instead, something weaker and my chest hurt, "I don't have any money." Careful of the falling apart, there was a new kind of chill in the air and when I looked at the clock it was already past midnight.

My birthday was over.

He left that night, didn't even say goodbye to the twins, and I felt empty again, hollow in all the wrong places. Maybe it would have been different if I stayed put, but I went looking for him after, hopeful in a way only a kid can be, and everything broke - splintered in a way I didn't know possible. Because finding him didn't take as long as it should have.

He barely made it down the road and I remember that it was raining so hard I felt like I was drowning, running through salt water and relinquishing the sting. The sky had cracked open, all-mighty and thundering, trying to flush out a house of sinners. But I still found him in the downpour, air all heavy and hazed, I wasn't an idiot, he was up against a brick face, prayer on his tongue, and he didn't look like Joseph anymore; hair matted to his face and eyes red, this wasn't the brother I had grown up idolizing.

This was someone else.

But I heard his words, familiar lines that were woven into my soul and he was still in there. He had just been swallowed down, pushed away by some kind of disillusion and I remember telling myself - telling him, it'd be okay.

"Isa." He said - begged - and sounded so much younger than I remembered. When his voice broke, I felt myself go with it, lungs filling with liquid, "Isaiah, I'm sorry."

He got fuzzy eventually, edges blurring when there was water in my eyes, and I couldn't make out what he was saying anymore. Some kind of empty comfort; I let myself hold him, counted down two minutes as we sat in the rain.

And then I went home without him, another piece of paper in my pocket.