Chapter Eight: September
To initially think she had been depleted of all her tears, Laurie cannot help the ones which streak from the corners of her eyes.
Her brother is a massive brute. Taller. Stronger. Quicker. All reminders of what he could have become had he not been secluded to Smiths Grove. An athlete maybe. Like Ben Tramer. With darker hair and the darkest eyes. And whenever the girls would attempt to grab his attention he would have for them a withering stare like the one he gives Laurie.
"Michael…" she says, her voice wavering. "You cannot— y-you absolutely cannot come into my room like that."
Naturally, expectedly, Michael says nothing. Nothing to offer her. No justification or defense upon his person. He is neither indignant nor sympathetic to her qualms. And Laurie's temper flares, the tears ever more present, the muffled sob withheld by her lips growing louder.
For a moment she thinks to hate him. For his indifference and for his inability to show compassion to her in her misery.
Why can't he? Why shouldn't he? Why does he have the privilege of emotional invulnerability?
Because everyone should feel bad for Michael because he can't talk? Because he can't function? Because he was once accused of killing his sister? Her sister.
Oh, but of course, Laurie wouldn't know what he must have gone through. She was only two at the time, and Michael was six and six year olds certainly have a far better grasp of death and murder than a toddler would.
But, Judith was hers too.
Why was he only entitled to the trauma imparted by her violent passing?
"I…"
There are so many thoughts in her head, all driven by a high, uncontrolled degree of emotionality, but Laurie voices none of them. Instead, all she can say is…
"It's my room…" she bleats.
Michael wouldn't understand anything else. Her pain. Her feelings. Those are all too complicated and beyond his mental reach.
"Can't you understand that?" Can't you understand me, Michael? The way I do you?
She doesn't know why she even bothers to speak to him. He never answers. Stupid, stupid, Laurie. Don't you ever give up?
Is this how she imagines the rest of her life? Take care of her incompetent brother, until she is old and haggard as he, who will never recognize that she's his sister—
Laurie's sobs are suddenly reduced to sniffles as the shock of Michael's hand warm on her cheek quiets her. She can feel his thumb stroking over a patch of skin, the repetitive motion is its own calm to her storm.
And then, Michael withdraws. Assumes his position on the edge of the bed stares out at the pale sickle of the moon as Laurie is sprawled on her back, with her hand over her cheek as a way to protect the linger of her brother's touch.