This House is Ours - 6 (Patreon)

Letter

Dear Simon.

Dear Sunday

.

You will be fine. As fine as anyone is in this world. I won't miss you. I won't miss your father. That's the whole point. I've loved you. That won't ever change. It will wait in the past, and you can reach out whenever you need it.

When I was young I believed that there were places in this world where nothing stayed dead for long. Ponds where bodies would resurface and cough themselves awake. Ground where you buried anything only temporarily. It was such a romantic idea to me then, like a woman in a long night skirt, standing with a lantern at the end of a pier on a foggy night. A safe warm idea of meaning and permanence. I never really took the time to think it through, eh?

Because if there is an afterlife, if our souls live forever? It means we're trapped.

If we can't choose to die, we don't have any choice at all.

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Sunday

There are strangers smoking outside the church. They say words when we pass them, sorry and other words, and sorry again, and jesus and angels and none of it matters. It doesn't. They don't even have faces. I'm half worried they are going to bow to us as we walk past. Simon and I pull the church door open, and go in. I can hear the strangers catch the door behind us. We're here now. The waiting is over.

Our grandmother leads us up front, past pew after pew of strangers. We sit down, and it begins. They've been waiting. They're ready to go. The priest gives us a small sad smile and looks down at the microphone. His voice booms. It fills the room with the words. He's standing beside a formal looking photograph of my mother from when she was young. From before we knew her. From before she was our mother.

The priest is loud and confident, but Simon and I can only hear the other voice.

"Selfish. Cowardly." A woman's voice, behind us.

"Next time, count to ten before you resort to violence," my mother said once. I was twelve, and bleeding from my ear. We were still living in the city then. My head rang and rang, so that I could barely hear her voice under the sound of a hammer against steel. I wanted violence now. I wanted a knife. An axe. I wanted the world cracked in two.

"What good does ten seconds do? What am I supposed to do for ten seconds?"

My mother leaned close.

"Plan," she whispered. And she kissed me on the head.

It was a real whisper, meant just for me. Quiet and firm. I never told that story to Simon, but beside me he is counting very very quietly under his breath. His voice wasn't a dream after all. He is perfectly still, in his seat. His shoulders are angry as he counts. But then he is done. His shoulders relax, And our aunt's stage whisper reaches us again. In church. At my mother's funeral.

"Never thought of anyone but herself," Two pews behind us, she is stage whispering. Which is not a whisper at all. Her words are meant to reach. Her opinions are very important. They're meant for everyone.

"Coward's way out," she says. About her own sister. About my mother. The thunder and storm outside are starting. The whole church flashes in the lightning and spark of hammers on steel. At my mother's funeral. Hammers on steel. Just a streak of rage inside me, I don't want to count to ten.

Beside me, Simon is counting under his breath again. I never told him that story. He wasn't there.

"Are you counting to ten?" I whisper, a real whisper, meant just for him. He nods without even looking at me. "Ten seconds won't save her, Simon." I'm so angry.

But he counts anyway. Only then does he stand. Ten seconds. There are three people to our right and four to our left. Simon goes right, slipping past before our grandmother can stop him. Our aunt is sitting two pews back, on the aisle. The priest is reading in a loud voice. I get up and follow my brother.

"Selfish is what it is," our aunt continues. Two pews back. I can hear my mother's word. Plan. Too late. My mother's smile. When had she told Simon those words? When had he ever needed to count to ten? There's so much I missed, back when I thought I was the only one. That the world only existed for me. But there he is in front of me, such small fists wound tight. My brother.

"So soon after their father died? To leave them with nobody? Selfish. Cowardly. The easy way out." It is obvious that Simon's plan does not account for consequences. And why should it? There are no consequences at a funeral.

He is fast. So small and so fast. The lighting and thunder crash around the whole church again and again inside us. I don't know what is going to happen. I can see her stupid, half familiar face now. My mother's sister. Crash. I don't know what is going to happen. I love it. This is the pain thrashing inside me.

Our Aunt looks over, turning to see what her husband is staring at, and Simon is almost there, his arms wide like he is coming in for a hug. She looks confused, but what can she do? She opens her arms, still sitting. She lowers her defenses. Simon folds into her, his face against hers. She wraps him in a reluctant hug but I can see his plan now. His teeth. He grabs her as tight as he can, and he bites her face. He bites her face again and again and again, making an ungodly sound as she begins to holler. She tries again and again to shove him off of her but she can't. Blood is pouring down her cheeks.

Her husband grabs Simon by his hair, pulling him off and shoving him to the floor, turning to tend to her. Motherfucker. I don't hesitate. I jump up and onto his back. Pulling his hair. Yanking to the side. I want at his neck. My teeth want in. I bite and I bite but all I can get is his jacket. Then I find flesh. I find muscle. I find blood. He throws me off, down hard onto the floor beside my brother. My head is ringing.

"Jesus Christ," he says, his hand clamped over blood. Our aunt is still trying to stop her own cheek bleeding. Simon is beside me. His teeth and lips and chin. There is so much satisfying blood. I pull him to his feet, and hide him behind me. I can taste the salt air again. We stand there, half crouched, ready. Teeth bared. What does it feel like for them to be threatened with their own blood?

Her husband turns angrily and I step toward him. He stumbles back a bit. He can't help it. Good.

Fear us.

My aunt has no idea what to do. Her smug certainty has vanished. Her words are gone now. Counted to ten and torn right out of her stupid face. Did nobody tell her that orphans are animals? Did nobody explain that there are no consequences at a funeral? She is just looking at us. Gaping. Bleeding. She has no more nasty important opinions.

Everyone else's words are gone too, just for a moment. There is no funeral. There are no reprimands or exclamations. Simon and I are standing alone in an empty church. Somewhere, not so far away, a tire swing begins to creak and ache.

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