She shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.
But it's not her fault, not when it is the 25th of December.
And it is still dark outside, but she has waited long enough - time to creep out of her bed, with flashlight held tightly in her tiny hands, and see if she can beat Glen to the tree this year.
He is always up first, smirking at her from his pile of presents and already drinking a mug of hot-chocolate.
And she doesn't know why this bugs her so much, but it does.
So, Spencer is going to beat him to the punch this year.
She shouldn't be up at all, but it's Christmas and she wants to be the first one downstairs this time. Her steps are light and she holds her breath, going past her parents bedroom door with wide eyes. The shadows move along the wall, caught in the beams from her bright yellow flashlight, and picture frames stretch and her own silhouette goes for miles.
It makes her giggle. And the giggle makes her hurry, fearful of being found out.
But it's not Spencer's fault.
She just wants to show her older brother that she is something pretty cool, too.
She just wants to see how many gifts have her name upon them.
She wants to see that empty plate, the one that was once filled up with cookies she helped her mother bake, and she wants to see that empty glass as well, milk long gone.
Spencer gets on her hands and knees once she is in the living room, sitting the flashlight down, and she plugs in the lights on the tree.
And there is that empty plate and glass.
There are those gifts, so many with her name, of every shape and size.
And she is the only one seeing this moment.
There is no Glen boasting off to the side. Not even her mother and father are around, with their familiar smiles and sweet hugs.
Just Spencer, standing back in the twinkling glow of a hundred colors, a beautiful haze descending over her eight year old form.
She shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.
But it's not her fault.
Not when she can see something so amazing.
/ /
Spencer shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.
And it's all her own fault.
She would almost rather be sick to her stomach, would almost rather bolt away and throw up all of last night and be done with it.
Her body isn't used to this much drinking, rebelling against her and chastising her with every agonizing beat behind her eyes.
Eyes that wish they had stayed closed.
Eyes that wish they had never strayed.
Eyes that wish they had never said a damn thing.
But, instead of staggering up and slinking away - just like a one night stand, just like all those slurs in the locker room - Spencer blinks and stares.
Stares at these sheets around her, not able to fathom the hues in this quiet nighttime.
And she stares at the outlines of things - a desk, a chair, vague hints of someone's life.
Spencer blinks. Spencer stares.
She stares at a bare leg, the way it is bent at the knee, and it looks really smooth.
And it probably is. Which is a lie, wrapped up in a truth.
Spencer knows that that leg is smooth.
And she blinks. And she stares.
Spencer stares at this girl on the floor, hair perfectly fanned out and blanket resting at the hips and a million different details shown whenever the clouds pass outside.
Lips parted. A sliver of stomach. Head one way, arms another.
And the floor cannot be comfortable.
And Spencer is still clothed.
And the early portion of the evening is a badly drawn blur.
But Spencer just blinks and stares at Ashley.
She stares until it hurts and that's when she should go, that's when she should disappear, that's when she should cut and run.
It's all her own fault, though.
Because, in the end, she does none of those things.
/ /
TBC