felix goravich - d3 - fin

I wish someone would have told me not to leave my towel hanging on a lamp to dry after taking a bath. I used to do it every single day. I didn’t know until the firemen came and told me it was all my fault our house had burned down.

They looked like two lizards on the stretchers where their faces poked out from under the white sheets. Soot-black and covered with scales where their skin used to be. Couldn’t even tell which was which. Mom or Dad, I mean.

I guess they didn’t need to tell me they were dead. I’m not stupid; I can tell when someone isn’t going to bounce back. But the next morning, in the hospital, a lady in a white coat pulled me into a room with that shoulder touch that only total strangers give when they need to deliver bad news. The cold-stranger-shoulder-touch.

Prints of famous paintings, not the real things, were hanging on the walls. I was sitting on a fake leather sofa that was too springy and turned my butt uncomfortably sideways. Not that I would have been comfortable anyway.

“Your parents are no longer with us. I’m so sorry, Miss Carmichael.”

That was my old last name.

I must have looked at her funny for saying she was sorry after they already said it was my fault. Because she felt the need to say it another way.

“Your mother succumbed to her wounds this morning. Her chest was crushed with burning wood when the ceiling collapsed. Your father suffocated from the smoke while trying to save her. He was already gone yesterday, but we wanted you to get some rest before we told you.”

Oh. How considerate.

Like I had asked for more details. I just sat there blinking at her like she was beating a dead horse in front of me.

I get it. They’re dead. It’s my fault.

Since then, it’s been hard not to feel like I’m just one or two wrong moves away from disaster. Step on a crack, kill your mother and father; that sort of thing. Everything everyone’s ever warned me about since the accident—it sticks in my head like gum on the bottom of a shoe. I try not to touch sharp knives, or ride my bike in sandals, or stand too close to a ledge. I don’t take the lead on group projects because I know someone else will probably do a better job than me.

Maybe it’s for the best that they put me in the Goravich home. If I lived in a house by myself, I’d never be able to leave without worrying that I left the gas stove on. And it’s not so bad having people my same age around. Before my house burned down, I was an only child, which can be pretty boring.

Being part of a famous person’s passion project is kind of cool, too— although, to be honest, I’m a little afraid of Klaus. I’ve never watched those old reruns, and—full disclosure—I fell asleep during his documentary. But I just imagine that any victor is a little crazy, like, capable of coming unhinged at any second.

Then again, maybe we’re not so different. We’ve both killed people.

It’s funny how life can change just like that. One night you fall asleep watching cartoons, and the next morning, your parents could be dead without having answered all the questions you might have asked them. Like, when will I get my period? How do you grow tomatoes? Why don’t we have any pets? How do you make your scrambled eggs so perfect? What do you do when you’re so angry you can’t talk and you just want to punch someone? Will you always love me, even if you die?

That’s how it is, though. You don’t think of the questions you wanted to ask until it’s too late. I don’t have anything reassuring to say about that—it’s just an observation.

Sometimes I lay awake at night just wondering what my life would be like if I hadn’t made such a dumb mistake. Maybe it would be boring. But the good kind of boring, where you still get to sit around the house with your family. I miss the feeling of everyone being in separate rooms, but knowing they’re somewhere close by. You know?

The other kids and I have that much in common—the lying awake at night. It must be an orphan thing.

At least the people here are nice, and I don’t have it as bad as some of the other kids. One girl, a year younger than me, is so stunned by the loss of her parents she can’t even talk. She just writes everything on a piece of paper.

Maybe I will give her some pointers on how to talk and say nothing at the same time. All it takes is a sense of humor. You can talk, talk, talk, and make a sort of wall around yourself that makes some kind of sense when nothing else does.

In fact, I’ve gotten so good at talking that it’s made me a salesman of sorts. I find things, hoard them, fix them, and sell them to the other orphans. Try to, anyway; it’s not like they have much money. But when I save up enough of these pennies I’m pinching together, I’m going to buy a motorcycle. Something red, or maybe orange. It’s just the most freedom I can imagine having all by myself.

Until then, I’ll be here! I’m fine. Everything’s fine.