"i just want to keep calling your name until you come back home."
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how does one ever stop the guilt? do you just continue your life in a vicious cycle of deliberations?
wondering what could've happened if you stayed home that nigh...
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A muffled voice greeted Alison when she woke the following day, and she rolled onto her side, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She snuggled further into her quilt as she reached out to pat Chester, curled beside her, ears cocked as he stared at the bedroom door.
Alison sighed when Chester got up and jumped from her twin bed. He landed with a thud, shuffled over to the door and whined, pawing at the wood.
Alison groaned.
"Sweetheart, talk to me."
The alarm clock sat atop her messy side table read 6:22, and Alison huffed loudly when Chester's whines grew louder, in sync with the voice somewhere in the house. The teenager rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself into a sitting position and got out of bed.
"Will?"
The broken A/C, combined with the chilly November morning weather, greeted Alison's bare legs as she threw herself out of bed at the sound of her brother's name. She shivered as she crossed the floor at a quick pace and opened her bedroom door.
"Please." Alison could hear her mother's voice coming from the bedroom across from hers, and she frowned as Chester trotted by her and down the hall, nearly tripping Jonathan, who had ripped his door open and rushed out of his room while pulling a shirt over his head, "Will? Talk to me."
Alison straightened and crossed the hall, her shoulder banging into her brother's as they reached for the door, ignoring the "No Trespassing" sign.
The sight that greeted the pair was confusing to say the least, and disappointing. Will hadn't returned, but their mother was sitting on his bed in the centre of the bedroom, and it seemed that she had brought in every lamp they had in the house. Each one had been placed carefully around the bed in a semicircle. Some with their shades, some without, and the ones without had been littered in front of the closet.
Joyce was rocking back and forced at the foot of the bed, hands wrung together as she stared at the light directly in front of her, "It's me. Just talk to me. Talk to me. Just say..."
Alison and Jonathan glanced at one another, and Alison shook her head, mouth open as she attempted to formulate any explanation for what their mother was doing.
Finally, she shrugged, and Jonathan stepped further into the room, "Mom?"
Joyce flinched at the sudden sound and quickly spun, her face lighting up at the sight of the teenagers, "Jonathan, Alison, come here. Come here."
"Mom, what is this?" Jonathan questioned as he walked into the bedroom, and Alison followed as she studied her mother closely.
Joyce looked like she hadn't slept all night. Alison supposed that it was likely she hadn't, but the dark circles indicated she hadn't slept more than a few hours in the last few nights. Her hair was tangled and greasy, more than Alison knew her own to be, and she felt her anxiety spike at just how not alright her mother looked.
