some silhouettes {stare}

Mum hasn't had the heart to move her bed. Not since...not since she left us. It was only a few days ago at this point, and it feels like we're all still reeling. Spinning tops, endlessly turning in the chaos until we blend with it all and disappear into oblivion. Someone set us in motion and now we can't stop. It just keeps

going

going

going.

I never had a strong stomach. I liked to pretend that I did, but as soon as I got on something that moved, maybe the ferris wheel or the merry-go-round at the park, my heart would jump into my throat and my stomach would plummet to my toes. I couldn't stay on for long. I'd go for a spin, laugh along to hide my fear, then get off as soon as possible. I'd cover it up by forcing her on instead of me, then spinning and spinning the wheel while she shouted at me to stop. I guess I wasn't the greatest brother. The others were always better than me.

A sigh escapes my lips, brows knit together, and I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. My weight leans against the door frame of her room. She was the only one in the family who got space to herself. Wiley and I shared a room, Hendrick and Kennedy had one together, and then of course Mum and Dad. None of us have argued with Mum about the place. Her bed still sits in the corner, cracked mirror leaning against the wall, rickety chair next to the door. Her sheets are crumpled, shoved to the end of the bed along with the nightgown she wore before the Reaping. Before she raised her hand and welcomed her own fate.

Across the room, rain taps against the window, pouring down the side in torrents. Spring has been pretty dry so far, and I'd usually welcome the rain, were it not for the fact that it keeps me in the house. I need to get out. I can't stay here, where sometimes I think I can hear her voice and I almost expect that one empty seat to be filled at breakfast.

My gaze turns to the floor, scanning the various papers scattered across wooden planks. Broken pencils rest here and there, red and blue paint stains the wood. She used to get mad when we touched her stuff. I think that's part of the reason none of us have had the heart to clean it up.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, peering at an unfinished piece of work. It's a sketch, a messy one: the bridge of a nose, a hairline, the silhouette of a face. It looks like one of use, but I can't quite tell which one. Could be me. Could be Hendrick. Most likely the latter, considering she never liked me that much.

Something screeches, and I jump in surprise. It takes me a moment to catch sight of the tree branch scraping against her window, displaced by the wind, shrieking against the glass. Ghosts howl from outside and I wonder vaguely if one of them might be her. She believed in that kind of thing, didn't she? Something about ghosts and the other side and a door they can't open. I'm not sure I agree. Well, that's not completely fair. Maybe I just don't like thinking about it, because the idea of lost souls is too sad. I never really wanted to know where they went. But now I just can't help wondering.

I can hear a light tapping from downstairs, which usually wouldn't bother me, but I still jump a little. I'm on edge, I think because of the storm. There's something in the air, some kind of tension, and I don't like it. I just want her to leave me alone. Or come back.

I can't stand the grey area in between death and forgetting.

"Jasper?"

Reluctantly, I turn my head away from my sister's room, glancing down the hall. It's Mum's voice, coming from somewhere in the depths of our house.

"Would you get that please?"

Her voice is hollow. Sad, empty, lost. That's all she's been the last few days. She lost her only daughter, and I think she lost herself in the process. The spinning top she calls her own has spun dangerously close to oblivion.

"Got it Mum." I call back, though not too loudly. I've begun to hate the noise. Amidst all the chaos, it just brightens the colors and speeds up time and I become more lost than I already am.

I take one last look at her room.

Breath in, breath out.

I close the door.

Whoever is knocking has been waiting a few seconds at this point, so I hurry downstairs, footsteps light and quick. I never was the most agile kid in school, but now, when everything is so fragile, I feel like moving too quickly will cause it all to shatter.

My hand rests on the door handle.

Maybe it's her. Maybe it was all staged.

Maybe she's alive.

No. Ghosts don't come back, or at least I don't think they do.

My spinning top wavers.

Shaky hands pull the door open.

"Can I help you?"