Ardor

Three: Aftershocks

Waiting for the aftershocks is the worst part. It's been about fifteen minutes since the initial earthquake finally ran itself dry. As soon as the earth stopped shaking the first thing I wanted to do was tear up those stairs and search for my family, but I forced myself to stay put because if the first quake didn't kill me the aftershocks still could. The heat went out a while ago--obviously--and the floor is beyond freezing. It doesn't help that I pretty much only have two and a half walls left to my bedroom, but I'm kind of out of options at the moment.

I take slow, deep breaths to try and calm my near-hyperventilating lungs. Adrenaline still courses through my veins, making it hard for me to remain in my hiding spot. I count the wooden slats supporting the bottom of my mattress at least five separate times as an effort to keep busy, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the throbbing headache currently knocking my brain around in my skull, not to mention the desert that is my mouth. I try to keep calm, nervously anticipating the quakes to come.

I nearly go into cardiac arrest when the first one strikes. Had I not cried for so long I probably would have peed my pants. For the first time I'm glad for my lacking of bodily fluids. The second hit isn't so bad. It never is. Three more times aftershocks wrack the already devastated skeleton that is all that remains of my childhood home.

I wait a good extra hour before I creep out from underneath the safety of my bed, my fear overpowering my body's need to move. I take the emergency kit with me, making sure the cheap plastic handle is gripped as firmly as my shaking fists can muster. The damage is absolutely unimaginable: once-strong walls are but crumbling bricks and concrete, wires jut out freely as if they were living, snapping at my ankles as I pass by, water pipes are shooting fountains of water all over the wreckage, a dust cloud still hangs in the air, so thick my lungs decide to cheat me out of air altogether. I hold my breath to avoid choking on debris.

I blink fast and often to keep my vision intact; the last thing I need is to go stumbling through here like a blind man. I do my best to keep my worst fears at bay, but somehow a few still manage to trickle into my already waterlogged brain. They must be dead, or they would have come looking for me by now, I think to myself. At least that's what I hope. Well not that they're dead, of course, but that there is some circumstance under which they could not form a hunting party.

As I venture up the dangerously dilapidated staircase the penny-like scent of blood almost immediately hits me like a semi truck to the nose. I gag and resist the urge to throw up, holding the floodgates shut with the back of my hand. At the top of the stairs I have to set down the emergency kit and dig through the mountains of Band-Aids in search of a flashlight. At long last I remove a metallic orange cylinder, thankfully with batteries already in place. I press my thumb into the round, rubbery button and a beam of painfully blue light instantly cuts into the thick darkness. I breathe a sigh of relief and cautiously move forward after repacking the small white box of medical supplies.

The blood-smell seems to be coming from the kitchen, so I make my way through puddles of spilled milk and soggy vegetables, searching for the source of the disgusting aroma. I am totally unprepared for what meets my unsuspecting gaze. I lean against the remains of a wall and throw up until I'm sure my organs are going to come next. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, leaving a suspicious looking streak on the edge of the cloth. A shudder of pure horror travels through my body as I look down on my father. The first thought that passes through my mind is, So he did come looking for me. I immediately feel like the worst person in the world.

Here I am looking at my own father's warped corpse and I'm worried about him trying to come save me. He appears to have been tossed down the stairs and into the side of the metal fridge--hence the blood splatters streaking the stainless steel. All in all this is probably more painful for me than it was for him. By the looks of it Frank Harris had an untimely but quick, mostly painless death. I try to console myself with this thought, but only continue in making myself feel even worse, so I pass it off on shock. I try to dodge the full amount of the damage to spare my already overworked heart, at least for now. I kneel by his twisted, bloodstained body and say my goodbye before covering his face with a hand towel. Thankfully his eyes are already closed.

I feel like it is strangely uncharacteristic of my dad to be dead. I feel like he could still jump up at any moment and release a long string of curses aimed at the presence of God himself. I feel sick and totally numb at the same time. This didn't happen. Everything will be fine. I'll come back downstairs and he won't really be dead, I tell myself. Maybe it sounds crazy, but sometimes to survive you have to kill your mind, and that's what I'm doing. No longer is my brain in charge, but some idealistic shadow of it; one that is going to keep me alive, if only for now.

There's only so much the human thought process can register at one time. If I were to try and take this all in at once I would probably be laying on the floor right next to my father. Self-inflicted blinders have many a time spared some poor soul's mind from total madness, so I readily equip myself and continue onward.

As soon as my foot hits the first stair to head up to the third floor I can hear the abused wood bow and groan, threatening to give way to my hundred and five pound frame. There's no way I'm getting up there, so I just have to improvise. I grab the first item to hit my line of sight--a heavy cast-iron pan--and hurl it up the staircase as hard as I can. A painfully loud crash shatters the eery silence and I jump for no discernible reason.

"What the hell?" I am shocked by the force of my mother's scream as she storms forth from the shadows, a broken wine bottle clutched in one of her angry fists. "Mom! Mom, it's me!" I see her move forward, her steps cautious. "Rhys?" Her eyes are panicked, her voice skeptical. Suddenly I am very afraid of that bottle in her hands. "Yes," I say as calmly as I can. "Where's Frank? Is he okay? Did he find you?"

I shake my head and gesture to his prone figure lying on the kitchen tile. My mother's weapon clatters uselessly to the floor and it is soon followed by her crumpling body. "Mom, come on, we need to leave." My voice sounds high and desperate, more like a five year old girl than a fifteen year old boy. All I see is her shaking head and sob-shaken shoulders. "Where's Clara?" I ask hesitantly. She looks up at me, bloodshot eyes illuminated by the glow of my flashlight. "I don't know," she hisses, voice venomous. I hear her words but they don't register in my mind, not fully. My blinders are working double time to protect that soft part inside of me until I can look at all that's happened with my own two eyes.

"Can you come down here?" Frustratingly enough my voice warbles like that of a crying child. "Rhys, I think it's better if you just leave." Her tone is cold and firm. I blink and stumble back a little as if she had physically just struck me. "No way," I say, trying to sound sure of myself. My mother just shakes her head and turns around slowly, retreating back into the depths of her room. 

"Mom! Wait! Where are you going?" She doesn't even acknowledge that I've said anything. I try to follow her up the stairs but they crumble away under the weight of my body. Panic swells in my chest, threatening to burst through my ribcage. Tears rush up from some bottom reserve and glisten in my eyes, fogging out my vision. "Mom?" I don't get an answer. 

I run my hands through my hair and crack my knuckles, trying to calm my pulse. My breathing becomes more labored and rushed as I try and think of a solution. Nothing comes to mind, which makes me even more panicky. I don't try and call up after my mom because I know she won't answer. Kary Harris is one of the most stubborn people in the world. Nothing is going to make her come down, not even her own son. I can't wait for her to come to her senses; that could take anywhere from days to weeks.

I kneel down on the bottom step and close my eyes, waiting for the cool relief of numbness to kick back in.

It never comes.