I stared at the door, out the window, into the grassy mountains, stretching higher then I could see. The soft, worn armchair felt like brick. My legs twitched, begging to be moved, for circulation. I denied them that freedom, keeping them planting in their spot, the soles of my feet creaking the floorboards and I dug my heals into the wooden ground.
A slight breeze, waving the tree branches at the side of the tiny house. I sat straighter. No one was there.
"Max," said Fang, leaning against the counter. His dark eyes were blank, accepting, "it's been three days."
"Yeah." I said.
"You gotta eat something." he said.
"I know." I said.
He said, "He's not coming back."
I pause. "I know."
I can see him nod from the side of my vision, like he expected as much. He opened a soda.
"The kids asked about it."
I nod, "What'd you tell them?"
Fang gulps some soda, "He was on vacation."
I don't say anything.
The sun was setting, I realized. The sky is a warm orange, blending into different shades of pink, yellow.
"We have to tell them."
Fang looks out the window, too, holding the can. It's Coke, I noticed.
"Maybe they'll figure it out."
He glares at me, without his usual commitment. More tired, weary. Older, then a twelve year old should look, "Max."
"Not now," I sigh. My eyelids droop, despite myself. I shift positions. I'm not sad, I realize. I stare at the tree, now still. The world had taken a surreal edge to it, colors once bright now dull, harsher through grieving eyes.
Fang clenches his jaw, his eyes glazing over.
My eyes sting. I dig my nails into arms of the chair. I breath hard, through my nose, blinking. A lump forms in my throat, and I really wish I could drink. Something. Anything. Coke. Beer. Vodka. The stuff under the sink.
He's not coming back. It hits me like a brick wall. I had known. I had known. But I didn't really. I told myself, but I didn't realize. And now, I'm pressed up against an old armchair with an overwhelming pressure against my chest. Tears well at my eyes, and I breath in.
"What are we gonna do, Fang?" I say, my voice high with tears. I let out a sob, one.
Fang is silent.
"I can't take care of these kids," I say, shaking my head, the rest of my body still, paralyzed. "I can't..."
Fang's voice is even when he speaks, "You have me."
The sky is purple now, and the faint outline of the half moon is white against the endless sheet of darkness. I've stopped crying, and the pressure is gone. I'm angry. Angry and hopeless and helpless and I hate it.
"Come on," he says, "go to bed."
I hesitate, my hands clamping and unclamping on the arm of chair, looking at the door, the window. I stand up.
My legs are like jello, and I can hardly walk. Fang's head is ducked as I walk past him, and I hear him follow me.
At my room, at my door, I look at back at him,a nd he looks at me. His dark eyes are black, endless. But there's some light, small, only a dot. Hell, it's probably a reflection from the hall light. Still, it's there, and, for some demented reason, it makes me feel better.
And, as we mumble goodnight to each other, and I close my door, and lean against it in the dark, I feel something.
I'm not sad, or angry. It's an unfinished feeling, unexplanable. I look into the overcast shadows from the moonlight, peeking in through my curtains, and I can't but think; it isn't over.
A/N Oooh. Drabble, stuck in my head. I hate those stories where it's like, "Everythign will be okay" hug hugs hugs. if you don't like it, whatever. Drabbbblllleee.