Syphon

Chapter 21: intermission pt. 4

After Edward came home from the hospital, Alphonse wouldn't leave him alone. Alphonse would lay in bed with Edward, watching him sleep, talk to him, even though Edward wasn't awake. But that was before Trisha took away his pills, all of them, down to the last. It had become apparent to Trisha that Edward could not take care of Alphonse, he was struggling, drowning in a shallow pool of pessimism and pain. It had only been a day since Trisha had taken the pills away from Edward, he was angry, not angry, agonizing over pressed powder. Edward never left the couch, he was having trouble standing, from the pills, the sutures, Trisha wasn't really sure. Edward refused to talk to her, he would look away in defiance, in disobedience, in spite of her. Eventually, Edward laid back down, remaining until the next morning, and or, until Alphonse ran to the couch to wake him.

Edward's reaction was unsolicited, Alphonse had done nothing wrong, but the medication was wearing off and Edward was irrational. At first, Edward felt sick, more so, nauseous, the nausea making way for pain, sharp, in his stomach. When Alphonse touched him, it was like his skin was on fire, and he pushed Alphonse away. It was violent, but Edward didn't hurt Alphonse, it was a gentle push, sudden, scaring Alphonse more than anything. Trisha heard the interaction from the kitchen, it was Saturday, she was making breakfast, and when she walked into the living room, Alphonse was crying and Edward was running towards the bathroom. Trisha heard the door slam, panic swelling up inside her like sickness, and she ran to the bathroom, but Edward had locked the door. Trisha could hear Edward vomiting, he was wrenching painfully, gasping for air. For a moment, there was silence, and Trisha knocked on the door, speaking, "Edward, open the door."

Edward could hear his mother, but he wasn't ignoring her, he was staring into the toilet, nauseous at the sight of his bloody vomit. Edward shut his eyes, his head shifting to the side, involuntary. He wanted to cry, but he was unable, and as suddenly as the sensation appeared, it disappeared, and Edward flushed the toilet, unlocking the door. Trisha opened the door as soon as she heard the lock click, pulling Edward into the hallway, exposing him, reprimanding him, "Are you OK, Ed?" Edward looked away and Trisha raised her voice, she wasn't screaming, but she was stern, "Look at me, Edward." Edward turned his head towards his mother, she looked angry, but upset, and she took him by the arm, holding fast, "You know the rules, Ed. You are not allowed to lock the door, do you hear me?" Edward looked away, again, shaking his head in acknowledgement, and Trisha let go of his arm, pointing towards Alphonse, "Apologize to your brother." Once again, Edward shook his head, and he was about to walk away, to do as he was told, when Trisha hugged him, speaking softly, "Please, don't do that again."

When Trisha released Edward, he apologized to Alphonse, halfheartedly, unsure of what he had done wrong. Edward was still thinking about the blood and if he should tell his mother. She would be upset, she would be angry, so Edward decided to say nothing, and he sat back down on the couch. Trisha was still standing in the hallway, she had turned away, she was weeping, but she wiped her tears and sat down next to her sons, smiling, but it was strained, "Come into the kitchen, breakfast is ready."

Alphonse was the first to stand, flittering towards the kitchen, followed by Trisha, who paused when Edward didn't stand. Edward was conflicted, relived, feeling revulsion, because the thought of food was revolting, unbearably so. Edward swallowed, sickness in his throat, and he looked up at his mother, "I'm not hungry."

Trisha spoke in concern, "You need to eat, Ed. You haven't been eating enough."

Edward clenched his teeth, still porcelain, "I don't want to."

Edward's defiance was unwarranted, and Trisha knew that the conversation was going nowhere. Edward wouldn't eat, he hadn't been eating, just lying in bed, taking pills. Trisha felt overwhelming sadness, and she sat back down beside her son, resting her hand on his shoulder, "You keep losing weight, Edward, you're so thin. Please, eat."

It was true that Edward had been losing weight. Edward's poor eating habits had always existed, he felt imperfect, especially when his father touched him, but it was really uncleanliness, like his skin was dirty, defiled. Edward didn't know how to deal with what his father was doing to him, so he would force himself to vomit, as many times as it took, to feel OK. But Edward never felt OK, just exhausted, because the wrenching made his chest hurt and the bile burned his throat. It was only a matter of time before Edward would see the fruits of his labor, that being, either his stomach would bleed or his throat would bleed, both capable of killing him in his sleep. Edward knew that his mother didn't know, she didn't know about things, just the things on the surface, things that she could see. There were things that Trisha couldn't see, but she was going to, not the worst, she would be dead by then, because Edward wasn't done making things worse, not yet.

When Edward was in the hospital, and when he became conscious, the doctors tried to get him to eat. Edward refused, he was then confronted by a feeding tube, and he relented, eating as little as possible, just enough to please them. Edward was malnourished, he had always been in poor health, in suffering, that was his thing. But that wasn't the true extent, things were far worse than what they seemed, intentionally, unintentionally, and Edward felt sad for a moment, speaking, "Mom."

Trisha was trying to look into Edward's eyes, but he refused to meet her stare, "What is it, Edward?"

Edward drew his brow, he felt confused, or torn, about confiding in his mother. He felt as though she wouldn't understand, or that she would, and that she would push him away, or worse, let him waste away. Edward spoke, then, reluctantly, "Is there something wrong with me?"

Trisha wasn't sure what she felt initially, it was an ambiguous feeling, like weight, physical in nature. Failure. That was the feeling, absolute failure. The words left her mouth before she even thought to speak, "No, baby, there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing." Trisha was crying again, having taken ahold of Edward's shoulder's both, "Don't say things like that, you're fine, just perfect." And Trisha held her son for the second time that day, in assurance, in reassurance, as though Edward would understand by osmosis.

But Edward pulled away, suddenly, looking away, "I don't believe you."

Trisha frowned, pursing her lips. Trisha tried to reach for her son, but Edward shifted further away, resting against the arm of the couch. Trisha wanted to show authority, but she was afraid that it would push Edward further away, "I don't understand. Why would you say something like that?"

Edward bit his lip, he was anxious, his blood pressure rising, his heart beating with uncontrollable autonomy. The sickness in his stomach was churning, the pain overwhelming, and he felt cold, in his hands, in his heart. Edward was going to say something, something prominent, important, but he settled for something physical, less powerful, "Mom, I'm cold."

Trisha was certain that Edward was going to say something else, that he was in pain, or that he had hurt himself, but the moment had passed, Edward unwilling to confide in her. Trisha shook her head in understanding, there was nothing more that she could do, not now. Trisha stood from the couch, and she sighed, but it wasn't a sigh, it was a sign of defeat. Trisha walked out of the living room and into Edward's bedroom, empty, because Edward had no interests, no idols, nothing. Trisha opened the closet, finding a sweater, blue, one that she had knitted herself, and she held it in her hands. Edward was always cold, it was in his nature, and all Trisha had ever wanted was for her son to feel warm, that was the truth. But the truth was that there was something wrong with Edward, and even though she had assured him otherwise, Trisha knew the truth, and the truth was, Edward was dead inside.

Trisha walked out of the bedroom, but Edward was no longer sitting on the couch, he was gone, absent. She ran to the kitchen, just Alphonse, no Edward, and she ran outside, searching, and the panic, it was in her throat, she was screaming, "Edward!" But Edward wasn't there, the fields were empty, green, and lush with corn, the stocks swaying in the wind. Trisha felt a pain in her chest, it was small at first, but the pain grew, louder, sharper, until she couldn't breathe. Trisha reached for something, anything, but there was nothing beside her, just open expanse, and nothingness, spinning, spinning, spinning. Trisha stood for only a moment more, the world had stopped, suddenly, and the sky was no longer blue, but grey, the grass was no longer green, but colorless, and she collapsed.

Trisha could hear her name, the voice was soft, unassuming, Edward's voice, "Mom." There was a pause, uncertainty, but he continued then, the words lacking sentiment, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Trisha opened her eyes, Edward was sitting on the grass next to her, squinting, because the sun hurt his eyes. Trisha couldn't remember when Edward's hair had become so light, or when his eyes had become so pale, and for a moment, Trisha felt as though she were seeing her son for the first time. Trisha wondered when Edward had changed, he used to be blonde, his eyes must have been brown, but he was different now. Trisha reached up and touched Edward's face, Edward taking her hand, and she spoke, "I know, baby, I know."

Trisha tried to sit up, but she felt weak, Edward helping her to stand. When she was ready to walk, Edward took ahold of her hand, leading her inside. Trisha followed, out of breath, coming to a sudden stop, "Edward?"

Edward stopped walking and turned to face his mother, "Yeah, mom?"

Trisha took another breath, inhaling, exhaling, and her voice fragile as she was faint, "I need to lie down, and I need you to watch your brother, OK? Can you do that," a breath, heavier than the last, "can you take care of him for a little while?"

Edward was looking into her eyes, "Yes."

Edward still holding onto Trisha's hand, and together they headed inside. When Trisha walked through the door, the house was quiet, and Trisha, who was worried about Alphonse, spoke, "Edward, where is your brother?"

Edward looked up at Trisha, his expression never changing, ever stagnant, "Alphonse is in the kitchen," and as a second thought, as though the information was significant, "he's coloring a picture for you."

Trisha sighed, appeased, and she nudged Edward's hand, urging him to lead her into the bedroom. Trisha crumbled onto her bed, like her bones had turned to gelatin, and before she let go of Edward's hand, she spoke to him, one last time, "Please, take care of your brother, Edward. Please." Trisha released Edward's hand, rolling onto her side, turning away from her son. Edward stayed, for a moment, contemplating, until he turned and walked out of Trisha's bedroom. Edward walked into the kitchen, then, finding that Alphonse was still sitting at the table, coloring.

Alphonse looked up when he saw Edward enter the kitchen, and he smiled, holding up his masterpiece. There were three stick figures, a woman in a dress, holding hands with her two sons, one blonde, one brown, smiling, except for the blonde son, his lips a straight line. "Look, Edward!" Alphonse was pointing at the figures, one at a time, "This is me, and this you, and this is mom." Alphonse never stopped smiling, but he did leave the table, just for a second, to put his drawing on the refrigerator. When he was finished, he picked up his crayons, put them back in their box, and ran over to Edward. "Can we go down to the pond, I want to pick flowers for mom."

Edward stared at Alphonse, trying to find words, anything that didn't sound apathetic, but there were none. Edward had a thought, then, motioning with his hand, towards the bedroom, "Mom is taking nap. Why don't you go see her, I'm sure that she'd like some company."

Alphonse cocked his head, thinking, he frowned, and then he smiled, "OK."

Alphonse skipped out of the kitchen leaving Edward alone. Edward picked up Alphonse's plate and put it in the sink, deciding to wash the dishes later. Edward collected Alphonse's coloring book, his construction paper, his crayons, and put them away, in a cabinet, in Al's bedroom. After an hour or so, Edward went to check on his mother, and Alphonse, who had decided to stay and sleep away the afternoon. Trisha was holding onto Alphonse as though he were immaterial, but Alphonse didn't mind, he always napped with mom, he was her baby. Edward stood in the doorway, watching, wondering why he had never been that way with mom. She tried to love him, but he didn't like it, not like Alphonse did. She would try to hug him, but he felt uncomfortable, but that was true of any affection. Edward walked over to the bed, covering his mother with a blanket and tucking Alphonse beneath the covers. Edward closed the curtains and shut the door, not tight, but ajar, taking one last look, and walking away.

Tomorrow, Edward would have to take Alphonse to school. He would ultimately stay home, mom had been struggling to get out of bed, she had been missing work, Edward had seen this, knowing that something was wrong even before Trisha had said so. Edward knew that he would have to tell Alphonse that their mother was dying, it was something that he didn't want to do, but he had to. It would hurt Alphonse, inside, in his guts, and he would cry. Alphonse would ask questions, but he would never understand, to him, it didn't matter the cause, or the reason why, because mom was leaving.

And that was the truth.