Page 9 of The Truths We Burn

The schizo.

And the devil.

The Hollow Boys.

Irritated and done snooping, I step back from the window. “I’m going to grab something to drink. Try not to cream your panties before I get back.”

Making my way down the steps and through our living room, I hear my mother’s glossy voice echo. My feet slow so she doesn’t hear me coming. I walk until I reach the edge of the kitchen entry, listening to her on the phone.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore, Sherry. I mean, she’s hopeless! She was always rebellious as an infant, but sleeping with Silas Hawthorne? God, I can’t imagine what the people at church think when they see us. He hangs out with a boy the town calls the Antichrist,” she whines emphatically.

My ears ring while she continues. “We’ve tried grounding her, and she just sneaks out. Ugh, and the weight! You should see the weight she has put on since she met him. It’s awful!”

The water starts to bubble at my feet.

A flood warning signals in my head, and I know what’s coming.

If she would just stay away from him like I told her, this wouldn’t be happening. Our own mother wouldn’t be speaking about her daughter like this. The water wouldn’t be rising this quickly, and my lungs wouldn’t be shaking.

“Sage is fine. I mean, at least we have one child who cares about this family’s image. Just as long as she can refrain from screwing it up.” Her footsteps move away from me, telling me she’s heading out the opposite side towards the den.

My heart pounds in my chest, my nails digging into the palm of my hand. Every time Rose screws up, every time she bends the rules, it’s like they push my head further and further beneath the surface.

The drowning is coming. I can feel it.

When awful things happen, some people become dainty, soft wallflowers that grow in the corners, waiting to be plucked by their Prince Charming.

And some people become warriors.

They forge themselves with iron, building layers of armor to protect what remains. They become hard.

Mean.

Angry.

Jealous of the ones who are able to reconstruct themselves without the bitter shards of glass from their trauma.

The front door opens, the wind brushing her dark auburn hair that is several shades darker than my own from her hair dye behind her shoulders. Her smile would light up an actual fucking room if you could convert it into electricity, and that should make me happy.

It doesn’t.

“Huh,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I thought the trash only came on Tuesdays.”

Rosemary’s eyes raise to find my own. The oversized hoodie that belongs to her boyfriend swallows her small frame. The smile falls, and she sighs.

“Save the bitchy remarks for your friends.” She pulls the hood up, walking into the kitchen to avoid me, but I follow.

I know I should walk away, leave before I say anything worse, but I can’t stop myself.

“Funny. The schizo teaching you how to have a backbone now, or are you just feeling feisty tonight?”

“Don’t call him that,” she says, slamming the refrigerator door. “What is your problem with them anyway? They’ve never even bothered you!”

My tongue becomes swift, sharp, lethal in a matter of moments.

What is my problem? My problem?

“They are scum, Rose. It makes this family look dirty!” I shout back.