What A Waste [cait]

nekane izar.

I reach for the half-empty bottle of alcohol that sits upon my bedside table, the murky contents moving sluggishly as I raise the opening to my lips. The liquid burns my raspy throat as it slides down into my stomach, bubbling away inside of me and releasing endorphins to allow me a moment of tranquility. As I slowly exhale, I return the precious flask to its place before stumbling to my feet, eyes bleary and rubbed red from an unbroken cycle of depression that never fails to make me sob.

The label reads ‘Emergencies Only’ – a subtle reminder of the many consequences that could occur if misused. For one, they were not at all cheap, and often hard to come by. For two, alcohol was known to bring out the worst in people. Hadn’t I seen the proof in that? For three, being in possession of it could perhaps render fatal if discovered. Just another secret locked away in the Izar Family Vault.

It sits right next to the truth about Sampson, upon a high shelf, stored away in a back corner where prying eyes that do not exist cannot find it.

The few steps I take towards the bedroom door are unsteady and nervous, and it takes all of my concentration to remain upright. Where had the days gone since Sampson had left? Down the corridor I am vaguely aware of the front door slamming shut behind an impatient child forced to mature into a lonely adult, all too quickly – yet I do not linger long on this, for my mind has already wandered elsewhere.

It had been two days after I’d last seen Sampson quietly eating his breakfast at the table, alongside the rest of our rag-tag excuse of a family. His sudden disappearance had put me on edge, and Deval had hardly muttered a single ‘Good morning’ to me. Not that it was expected. It wasn’t until I attempted to clean Sampson’s room that I found the trash bin filled to the brim with half-written letters and unspoken apologies to those he left behind. I sat to carefully unfold the scrunched up pieces of paper – more letters to read that would only hurt me in the end.

The wave of déjà vu that followed was so overwhelming I had to catch my breath before I could even make sense of the messy writing scrawled across the thin sheets.

They cut too close to my heart, where the patched-up piece of Benat still remains. His own words, forever engraved in my brain, entangle themselves with those of Sampson’s as he starts and stops and restarts his own story, a raconteur struggling to make vocal what it is he wants to be known, if only to a select few.

These words are stored like secrets.

Approaching Deval had been the worst part. Of course, he had known, and of course, I was not angered at his foolishness in keeping such horrifying facts to himself. Of course, he had been furious, commanding me to ‘keep my mouth shut,’ to ‘not tell a single soul,’ as if I were the one with issues.

The one thing that had stuck since my discovery, alongside the crippling nausea and tidal waves of depression, was the gnawing guilt in my body telling me that it had been all my fault. It was hard to tell which voice within my head was winning – the one of reason, or the one of uncertainty.

Three ghosts linger in our household, reminding me that I could very well be the fourth, perhaps sooner rather than later. But I wouldn’t let that happen. I had a job here. A promise, to Benat.

‘And how’s that going for you so far?’

I can’t say we had become closer since Sampson disappeared, nor since our confrontation. Since Iago died, since Benat left. So it is with surprise that I find myself making for the door, following after Deval, the faint perfume of a sickly sweet sin still lingering in my mouth.

Although he is far ahead of me, it is easy to locate him almost immediately. District Eleven was such a tiny community, its only saving grace the rows and rows of fields situated at the outskirts of the area. A few shops litter the deserted street, and a hunched figure scurries along in front of me, unmistakably Deval. I watch him disappear into a small store, the word ‘BAKERY’ clear and legible as I move closer. It has barely been two minutes before I see the tiny window shatter, a barely audible groan escaping my lips as I rush forward to confront the damage that has occurred.

Inside the bakery I watch, frozen in place as Deval’s anger gets the better of him. Bags flying, jars shattering, he is caught up in his own world, muttering profanities under his breath. The shop keeper looks over at me, standing cautiously by the door, his beady eyes flashing with urgency and terror. Yet I cannot do anything.

To interfere would only anger him more. Yet wasn’t that my job? To look after him? To keep him out of trouble?

The clattering continues a moment longer before I am at his side, his wrist held firmly in my palm as his outstretched hand yearns for another bag of flour to launch. I look down at him, my eyes steady and my gaze unwavering. Yet they hold a thousand apologies that he will never hear.

I can’t help but listen to the voice of uncertainty, manifesting in my mind, as it silences the voice of reason, slowly convincing me that ‘it is all my fault’ after all.



che1sey ©