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My body protestsmore than it should as I stretch my arms above my head, yawn, and eventually heave myself out of bed. I’m only twenty. My joints shouldn’t feel like they need to be oiled before I can move in the mornings.
I peek over at Kevin’s sleeping form and tug his thumb gently from his mouth. While it’s a habit he’s broken while awake, it’s one he can’t seem to shake while asleep. I snort quietly to myself, noticing how his legs are stretched on a diagonal across the single mattress, leaving me only the tiny sliver I currently occupy. The stiffness in my arms and shoulders makes more sense now. We were pretty crammed in last night.
“Kev?” I murmur quietly, brushing my knuckles gently across his cheek. “It’s time to wake up. Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s go.”
He groans and rolls over, covering his face with his arms before pulling the blanket over his messy brown curls.
“Not yet, Addie,” he whines in a sleepy voice, and I smirk at the accidental nickname born of an inability to make his m and n sounds when he was a couple years younger.
“You’re too little for that,” I chuckle, bunching my fingers in the blanket before tugging it down. “Sorry, bubba. You’ll be late if you don’t get moving. I’m going to take a shower and then I need to get dressed. If you’re not up before I get back, I’m going to dump a bucket of water on your head.”
He pulls the covers down to glare at me over their edge. “You wouldn’t.”
I raise a mischievous brow at him. “Wouldn’t I?”
His eyes widen and I laugh to myself as I push off the bed. My door squeaks softly as I pull it open, but the house is otherwise quiet. Faint sounds drift from the kitchen, telling me that Mum is there waiting for us. Probably having a cup of tea. But there’s no clanging of pots or pans. No scent of breakfast wafts through the house.
Just like it does every morning when this realization hits, my heart pangs painfully in my chest.It never used to be this way.
Before Mum was diagnosed with Cervus, her energy knew no bounds. She worked all day, was up late at night completing the household chores with me, and then she’d be at my door first thing in the morning to wake me up, breakfast already on the go. She wouldn’t have any of my protesting that a piece of half burnt toast was plenty.
My parents used to be laughing together by the time I finally walked into the kitchen. They were happy, in love, and excited for another day—regardless of how dreary that day might turn out to be.
Now, I’m not even certain Dad is home at all, though I suspect he is. Just still in the bedroom or out in the backyard shed, puttering and muttering to himself. Between that and endless job applications that go unanswered, he’ll keep busy enough not to go totally insane from being out of work.
They don’t realize I know the extent of our troubles. Fear and guilt trickle into me like ice cubes sliding down my spine. I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to do yet, but my mission for the day between classes is to research—both part-time jobs and selling Omega scent glands.
As I walk into the bathroom and strip down, the irony isn’t lost on me that every other eligible Omega has woken up with hope in their hearts while I woke up with resignation.
I step under the dribble of cool water that counts as spray for our shower and race through washing only the most necessary bits before I get out again, not wanting to rack up the water bill on top of everything else.
Once I’m dressed, I pull my damp but unwashed hair into a ponytail and then I’m done.
The bargain shampoo I bought on the last grocery run leaves my long wavy deep copper hair like straw, so I only bother washing once a week, sleeking a drop of conditioner through just the ends to keep them from puffing out like Clara Turner’s pom poms.
Since cosmetic products are also a luxury, I’ve been saving the last dregs of my single mascara tube for graduation because I know Dad will be there snapping about a million photos I don’t want to cringe every time I look back at. So, I apply nothing today save for a smear of the moisturizer Mum and I share over my cheeks and jaw where my skin tends to dry out this time of year.
When I look into the minimally fogged-up bathroom mirror and my reflection stares back at me, I sigh. Since my hair got a bit wet, it looks dirty even though I washed it just three days ago. The smattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks makes me look dirty, too. I love freckles on other people, but mine aren’t cute. They’re like these light brown smudges that won’t come off. None of them quite perfectly round, like they could have been drawn on by my kid brother as opposed to the skilled hand of life’s artist.
Tiny bits of errant string and fluff sit on the collar of my shirt where it’s fraying. My jumper is definitely on the threadbare side, dull patches of the shirt underneath visible through the fabric. I found both uniform items in a thrift store a couple of years ago. They were already well-loved at the time I bought them, but now, they’re a bit worse for wear. Too bad they’re all I’ve got until graduation.
Spinning around, I hang up my towel before heading to the kitchen. As I predicted, Dad isn’t here. Mum sits at our small, round dining table, nursing a cup of tea.
My heart gives another, more painful pang at the sight of her, but I hide it behind a smile she can’t see anyway.
“Good morning,” I say cheerfully as I stride across the kitchen to drop a kiss on her mop of dark curls. “Is it just us this morning?”
She turns her head toward the sound of my voice, the green eyes I inherited—ones that used to be so clear and bright—now almost completely clouded over. A few months ago, Cervus rendered her legally blind and began to eat away at the hearing in her right ear. I can’t believe how quickly the disease has progressed, but the evidence of its cruelty sits right in front of me. It’s bad enough to watch it take from my mother, but it’s also a reminder of what could be waiting for me in the years to come.
Cervus isn’t hereditary as a rule, but it’s a lot more likely for those who’ve had a parent with it.
“Well, Kevin is supposed to be up, but Dad’s gone out already.”
Although she’s trying hard to match my cheerful tone, there’s a definite strain to her voice. I know, Iknowshe hates it just as much as I do. She manages a soft smile as she points toward the kitchen counter. “The cereal’s out. How are you feeling, baby? Today could be the day, you know. For youandfor Dad. He has a promising interview, and you might be selected for the Trials. You know, I heard there’s compensation for your time even if you aren’t selected in the end. Not much, but a little something.” She sighs wistfully. “It’s a big day.”
As if on cue, I can hear the radio mutter something about the trial coverage beginning in justa couple short hours!
Damn it all.
