Today

Chapter IV

Wednesday April 6th

I am seventeen years old.

I have been alive for approximately 208 months.

That's 6,329 days.

That's also 151,895 hours.

Or 9,113,760 minutes.

Or approximately 546,825,600 seconds – and counting.

Out of those 6,329 days, I remember one of them. Out of those 6,329 mornings that I have woken up, opened my eyes and been filled with anticipation at the day ahead of me (not that that happens much any more), I remember one of them.

The average human takes about one breath every three seconds. That's about 18 breaths a minute (I've timed it to make sure). I have taken more than 1,640,476,800 breaths in my lifetime. That is around 1,640,450,880 breaths that I have completely forgotten taking. There are only about 25,920 that I do remember. Give or take.

It seems unfair, as does almost everything else when you think about it statistically.

I put down my pencil when I hear a knock at my bedroom door.

"Come in," I say, and the door creaks open. My mother steps in. She approaches my desk, where I sit, and presses a hand to my forehead.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," I reply.

"Your medicine only lasted twenty-four hours," she says. I assume this is some medicine I took twenty-four hours ago, because if not, it sure as hell isn't working. I feel like I've been run over by a bus. Repeatedly. "You should stay home again today," she continues. "I'll give you another Tylenol. Your sister isn't feeling good either, so she'll be staying home too."

A day home alone with Emma. Beautiful.

I hope that medicine knocks me out.

°°°

I go downstairs later that day to find my sister on the couch, sleeping. At least, I assumed she is sleeping, but when she hears me enter the room, she opens her eyes and sits up.

"Oh good," she smiles cheerily. "My little brother is here to keep me company."

"I'm older than you, dumbass," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I sit down at the end of the couch.

"Maybe in years, but not in mentality," she sits up, smiling at me like a kindergarten teacher would to one of her students.

"What on earth are you talking about?" I roll my eyes again. "And why are you so cheerful if you're sick? If you have what I have, you should be bitchy as hell."

She gives me a good, long look, as if she's sizing me up. Then, she says, "Promise you won't tell mom?"

"Whatever. Fine. I promise."

"I'm not really sick," she shrugs. "I just didn't want to go to school."

"You're fifteen and you're already an expert at taking advantage of mom's trust in you," I say, amazed.

"For your information, I'll be sixteen in less than a month," she shoots me a glare. "And, you set me up with the perfect excuse. Thanks for that, by the way."

I roll my eyes for the third time since I entered the room, which just goes to show how seriously I take my little sister.

"You should be happy about this," she says. "This way I can take care of you all day."

"Oh goody," I deadpan.

I wish Michael would come over again so I didn't have to deal with Emma all day, but I doubt even he would risk that two days in a row.

"Let's watch a movie," she suggests, throwing the covers off of her legs and standing up. "I'd let you pick, but I already know which one you would choose if I did. You always pick the same one." She pulls a DVD from the shelf under the TV and holds it up to show me. It's some animated movie with a sticky note on the front, partially hiding the title from view.

"What does that sticky note say?" I ask.

"It says: 'To Jack: you'll love this one. Sincerely, Jack.'," she replies without even looking at the yellow note. "You left it there about a week ago. You're always doing things like that."

I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth as Emma starts the movie. The Lion King.

We watch in silence for the first half, and then she turns to me and says quietly, "you know, this has been your favourite movie since you were little. We've watched it so many times I'm surprised you don't remember it permanently by now."

I look at her.

"We used to watch it together," she swallows, her eyes fixed on my mine. "And we'd each pick a character we wanted to be. I was always the same person, but every time you watched it, you would choose someone different. You used to pretend you knew what they were thinking, and you would talk through the whole movie." Her eyes fall, glistening, and I worry she will start crying.

"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

She slowly nods, but when she closes her eyes, two tears squeeze out and run down her cheeks.

"Don't cry," I say hoarsely. "Please don't."

She opens her eyes again, and they are wet and red. She leans forward and wraps me in a tight hug. "I know you don't remember the person you were back then," she says into my ear, barely a whisper. "But I do. And I miss him."

Those words break something inside of me, and before I know it, we are both sobbing.

"It's not fair," I say through the tears.

Emma leans back, her face blotchy. "I know it isn't. But that's okay. And I shouldn't have said that. You would be a different person now even if you could...remember. Because people change. I love the person you are now too."

I swallow, trying to hold back another rush of tears. I can feel them building at the back of my throat like a tidal wave.

Emma looks down. "I just wish you were happier."

This time, I can't hold back the sob.

Because everyone wishes I was happier.

Including me.

But of course it isn't that easy.