Apricot.
That's the colour of my wall. I should know. I've been staring at it for the past hour. And the hour before that. And the day before that. And the months before that. It used to be peach, but you have to have natural light for that, and I don't remember the last time I opened my curtains. Nowadays, I sit in my room, feeling the pills killing my feelings. Empty. Listless. Numb. Because if I'm not so drugged up I can barely speak, I am screaming and crying and throwing things or carving bracelets of weakness onto my wrists and thighs with the cold calculation of someone practised.
My family have all tried to get me to come out my shell, to stop popping pills like they were going out of fashion, to do something with my life. My aunt used to come every day with paints and textbooks and vouchers for millions of different activities. But she stopped when I told her that it was her fault I'm like this. I told her that I hated her, and all of her children and her husband. She put her hand to her mouth and there were tears in her eyes. Then she started crying. I know I shouldn't have said it, but to be totally honest, I didn't seem to care any more.
Because Mattie is dead. And I am a cripple. And as much as I try, I will never have what I had before.
I used to be so god-damned happy. Pretty, funny, popular, clever. Naïve. Oh so, so, naïve.
Now I have nothing. No, less than nothing, seeing as I am fifteen inches shorter than I was.
There is a tentative knock on the door. I ignore it. It is probably a cousin trying to cajole me into eating some food, or going for a walk or snapping out of my quagmire of grief and hatred. They think I'm being dramatic and should be 'over it' by now.
"Viccy? Victoria?" It is my uncle. This is new. He hasn't come to tentatively ask if there is anything he can do, yet.
I don't answer, and look down at the half healed slashes on my arms.
"If you don't unlock the door, I'm picking it." There is something interesting in his tone, a no-nonsense manner which secretly I am desperate to hear. I could go insane from listening to the barely concealed pity and sympathy that I have heard almost daily for the past two years.
There is a click as I hear his power with mechanics compel the lock to open. My door swings open, and I close my eyes against the light. I hear him stride towards the curtains, throw them wide. I feel my eyelids twitch against the sudden onslaught of brightness. I hear him throw open my drawers and wardrobe and drag my suitcase out from underneath the bed.
"Come to throw some more money into the situation, in the hope I'll leave you alone?" I ask cruelly. I am referring to the money he paid my dad with to get him to move out of Germany. He doesn't flinch.
"Get your prosthesis on." That's all he says. I don't.
"I said, get them on. We're leaving in twenty minutes."
I swear at him. Motionlessly tonelessly, casually. I open my eyes. He is holding out my legs, and slowly I take them, and drop them on his toes.
"Why?" That's all he asks. He knows why. Because I am twenty one years old and I have no future. Because the world has taken everything from me. Because my sister and my mother are dead, and by rights I should be too. I'd prefer it to this ghostly half world that is starting to curl and blacken around the edges. I am not prepared for my uncle picking me up and tossing me over his shoulder, taking me downstairs and buckling me into the front seat of his car, but I make no effort to resist him, and just make myself as heavy as I could, utilising my hundred/hundred and ten pounds, or whatever I weigh now.
"Not using your powers?" he says, as I make no protest but continue to stare ice at him.
"Have it your way." He shrugs, and walks back into the big townhouse that is full of so many torturous memories, and returns a few minutes later dragging my wheelchair and carrying an old suitcase that looks stuffed with all my bodily possessions. He throws it in the back of the car and gets in beside me.
"Where are we going?" My voice is hoarse and scratchy, a result of constant crying and lack of use. I send a little telepathic probe to see if his shields are down, but I am disappointed.
"Our house. We'll sell this one." He says easily, negotiating our way onto the busy road by the canal.
I choke, but he doesn't notice as my hands close hard on my jeans.
"Then we can look at getting you involved with the Savant Net. They seemed very interested when I told them about your gifts, and-"
"How dare you!" I'd found my voice, and the temper switch was flicked. "That's my house! Mine! You can't sell it! You have no damned right!"
My uncle's eyes flick over to me. "Actually, I do. Your father left the house and assets to me."
I rub my hand over my eyes, feeling the tears that came all so readily these days spring up.
"That would only work if he was dead. And he isn't." I say through the thick lump in my throat.
"Legally, he is deceased." My uncle says calmly. I gave a little howl.
"He's not dead! He ran away because… because… Mattie died!" I wail. "The Savant Net, they're the ones responsible! And…and you expect me to work for my sister's killers?" I've been through all of this before in my head so many times, ignoring the little niggles in my head that I've managed to push out with Zoloft and Risperadone and who knows what else.
He sighs, and rubs his chin, and when he speaks his voice is filled with bitter resignation. "No, Viccy, you killed Mattie. I'm sorry for saying it, but you cannot blame the Net. They made an error of judgement, but they were not responsible. You were the one who pushed her in front of the truck."
My heart skips a beat. The niggles spring back to life. You did it, your fault, you did it…I can't believe he is saying this. I stop crying, and the world seems to spin.
"No. No. I didn't kill her. It wasn't my fault! I swear! I didn't do it! I tried to save her, I promise. She was...She was…"I begin to weep openly, trying desperately to open the door of the moving car.
"Hey! Hey! Stop that!" My uncle reaches over with one hand, trying to restrain me. He manages to get a firm hold on my arm.
"Get off me! I hate you! I hate you!" I start to scream and hit the window.
Sleep.
He touches my forehead, and I feel the crushing darkness surround me.
Oh, don't I know that feeling so very well.