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I hold him closer, shaking as much as he is, and pull up the blankets. They’re a mess, and I don’t care. I put my head on his shoulder. Jameson turns his face toward mine.
“No,” he whispers.
“Go to sleep,” I whisper back. “You can torture me again in the morning. It’ll be fine.”
15
JAMESON
Small footsteps wake me up.
No. I’m already awake. I’ve been lying awake all night. I was awake when Gabriel left. That was—
When was it?
A glance at the watch on my left wrist, something I only took from the house because I forgot I was wearing it, gives me no information. The hands are in a different position every time I blink. The couch is a piece of shit, and I can’t sleep on it. I can’t sleep.
I can’t get up, either. Somebody’s filled my bones with concrete.
The footsteps get closer. I keep thinking they’re fading out, but they’re covered by the constant whine of the next-door unit’s ancient air conditioning unit. Louder, than softer. Louder, than softer.
I’m late. My chest constricts. I’m not late. I missed it.
Missed what?
The funeral. The funeral was today, and I didn’t go. I forgot. What was I doing that I forgot my parents’ funeral? I get my torso up off the couch, but my legs don’t work. The apartment’s dark. It smells like fresh paint and old carpet. The single throw pillow I sleep with smells like the house we don’t have anymore.
What was I supposed to wear to the funeral? I don’t know what I brought from the house. Did anybody notice we weren’t there? Did Mason go without me?
No. He can’t move.
One of us should’ve been there. It was probably supposed to be me, and nobody was there for our parents. I’m such an unbelievable fuckup.
Those small, tentative footsteps, a little kid awake in the middle of the night, cross behind me.
I can’t turn my head. “Remy?”
“Jameson.”
Remy’s standing right in front of me, six inches from my knee, her seven-year-old face bone white, like the lightning left a permanent mark. She wears a pink nightgown with a sequined heart on the front, and her hair’s wild, a blonde halo around her head.
“Jameson.” Her chin dimples.
My jaw’s wired shut, but I push through. “Remy, it’s late. You gotta go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“Mason won’t stop screaming.”
The concrete in my bones freezes. That constant sound wasn’t an air conditioning unit. Maybe I wanted it to be one, but it’s not. Mason’s screaming into his pillow, but his voice is all ragged. It only gets quieter when he takes a breath.
I can’t take it. Every time he screams I think it’ll be the time I lose my mind. I need it to stop.
He screams again.
The bedroom is in the wrong spot, and my stomach lurches at having a clear view. Remy shouldn’t be watching this. I should’ve taken her out before now. I can’t believe I didn’t hear it. I can’t believe I thought it was a machine. Mason’s on the bed, a pillow over his face. The fall mangled his leg beyond recognition. I shouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. Why didn’t anyonefix this?What did they spend all that time in the hospitaldoing? Keeping him alive so he could die suffering?
