Voices

c h a p t e r 1 4 : l o s t

S a m

"I'm dying tonight. But no one is crying. It's not alright no matter what they say." - Makeshift Love, Good Charlotte

What's lost but can't be found?

Gone with the wind.

Carried into the clouds.

Or drowned in an ocean of fear.

*

"Sam! Get ready! We're leaving in 15 minutes."

"Okay, Mum!"

I stretch my arms, yawning, kicking the covers off my body and getting off my bed. I strip out of my muscle tee and sweatpants and change into my jeans and white shirt hanging from the door of my wardrobe before grabbing my backpack and phone off my desk and heading downstairs.

"Sam, comb your hair, for goodness sake!" Mum exclaims as I enter the kitchen. "And maybe wash your face while you're at it. You look like you just woke up from sleep."

I chuckle. "That's because I did, Mum."

"You and your afternoon naps," she replies lightly. "And you wonder why you can't sleep at night."

"Well, you know," I reply, stifling my laughter, making a beeline for the bathroom.

I open the door and walk in, opening the tap and letting the cold water run over my hand before combing them through my hair, flattening the strands of hair that are sticking out. I glance at the mirror, making sure I look presentable enough, splashing water onto my face, effectively waking me up and walk out of the bathroom.

"Sam, why didn't you wipe your face? It's so wet!" Mum comments as I reenter the kitchen. "Oh, Sam. When are you going to learn?

She grabs some tissue paper from the box on the kitchen towel and head towards me, dabbing the droplets of water on my face to dry it.

That's the problem, Mum. When am I ever going to learn? When will I ever learn from my mistakes?

Never.

I'm stuck in a loop, playing my mistakes on repeat, constantly reliving the very moment I've been trying so hard to forget. I hardly know where I stand right now. Every time I feel like I'm about to move on, everything just comes crashing back down on me.

But, I guess, forgive and forget, right? Move on. It's easy to forgive others who have wronged you, no matter how badly. It's harder when it's you you have to forgive. Or maybe I'm just being too hard on myself.

Too hard? What a great joke, Sam.

If anything, you are too soft on yourself. Way too soft.

Too soft, Sam.

"Mummy! Mummy! Can we go? Can we go?" Sander asks, pulling at the hem of my mother's shirt excitedly, a huge, mischievous grin on his face.

"Soon, Sandy. I've just got a couple of things to do first," Mum replies, storing a container of tomatoes into the fridge. "Why don't you wait with your sister in the living room?"

"But I want to go now!"

"Sandy," I say, laughing, bending down and pulling him into a hug. "You want to go now?"

He nods. "Yes, please."

"Be patient, young one," I say, tickling him.

He bursts out laughing, both of us falling to the floor. "Stop, Sam, stop," he breathes out between fits of laughter.