l o s t [m.h, g.d]

15

                   

I held the phone to my ear still. And then it dropped and I heard it fall to the floor by my feet. The sobs came as a surprise. At first I thought I was experiencing the start of some kind of fit. They seemed to come up in waves. From the pit of my stomach. Racking my body violently. But still no tears. I was just juddering. And then I fell forward onto the steering while. Grasping it with my hands, my knuckles and fingers going white, bloodless from how tightly I was holding on.

I started howling. That's the only way I can describe it. I had no control over the noises coming from me.

You see, Matty was wrong. Not completely wrong but he didn't know the whole story. Not many people did. Even I was wrong. I could love people. I loved my family. I loved how they treated me as a complete equal, as well as their child, when my own parents couldn't take care of me. I truly didn't care all that much about my adoption. And to be fair they were the ones I spent my childhood with, not my parents. But most of all I had loved Ali. He was the surprise. The thing none of us had bargained for. I remember when Popsi and John had told Rosa and me. They were terrified. Terrified we would be upset, angry or something. I had started crying, something I've always done a lot of apparently. But I wasn't crying out of anger or sadness. I'd been so happy I felt like I would burst. Because for maybe the first time, I felt like I was in a family. Ensconced between the two biologicals. I was going to have a baby brother. He'd popped out, looking like a beautiful, extraordinary, slimy alien. And I loved him from the minute my eyes touched him. He grew up. Into a toddler with red cheeks and black, black hair. Completely different to Rosa and Popsi who both had long red hair. People would always fret over his red cheeks, thinking he was too hot, ill. He used to shout and throw rice around the kitchen with a gleeful glint in his eye. And then he grew into a little boy who was more interested in the snails in the garden than his two teenage sisters, upstairs playing with makeup and practising kissing on posters of Gareth Gates. I used to watch him. Constantly. Out in the garden digging a hole or sitting talking to himself on his slide. I would get tiny panic attacks thinking about him falling off if I looked away. Then he turned into a little man. He only very slightly got into that moody teenage boy thing. I wouldn't let him for a start, but he was too gentle by nature anyway. He used to make everyone laugh, jumping about being silly or doing impressions of his friends and his teachers. He used to charm old ladies at the shop, tossing sweets into his mouth and his smile was wide, so wide. He would refuse to cuddle me, saying 'that's weird' and wrinkling his nose. But I would crush him under my weight on the sofa until he'd give up, laughing uncontrollably. He used to write diary's, although he never knew that I knew that. I found them under his bed when I was looking for this watch of mine that he kept stealing. I read through them and cried like a maniac. Because they were so beautiful. They were covered in sketches of Turtle, our dog, or Rosa sleeping on the sofa. Popsi sunbathing in the garden with her shoes kicked off. Graphic designs. The names of his favourite bands. Girls names, girls I'd never heard him talk about. He'd pressed flowers between the pages, their petals staining. And there were photos too. Mostly of me. Smoking out of the bathroom window in a sparkly top. In the field next to Melissa's house. That time we went swimming at midnight in the South of France. And I cried because the inside of his head was a beautiful place. Much more beautiful and pure than mine. He never knew I'd found them. He would have been angry, and I couldn't bear that. I also didn't want him to feel embarrassed that I'd seen them. Because I didn't find them embarrassing at all.

When he was 14 I was 18 and we used to climb out through the skylight in the attic and onto the roof of our house. I would let him smoke my cigarettes and in return he would tell me stories. The funniest stories. About his mates and the girls they liked. The girls he thought liked him. We would laugh about Popsi and John and Rosa and her hippies. He would tease me about having boyfriends or not having boyfriends. He would tease me and tell me that he knew I didn't really like any of them. I would tell him that he was always my number one lad. And at that he would tell me to 'cunt off' and ask for another cigarette. Those were my favourite memories. The feel of the sun and the hot roof. The cracking of the tiles and our chat, our hushed laughter, 'Shhh, Popsi's gonna here. She'll shank us with that highland sword she keeps in her wardrobe...' giggles afresh.

One night he fell. He just fell. He was 15.

He hit the patio facedown and he died.

My fault.

'I've done it loads before. I'm not scared. Come on, don't be a pussy.'

'You have a disgusting vocabulary.'

'Learnt it from you.'

'I can't get my leg up that far- ow.'

'Come here, stand on me hand.'

Should never have let him talk me into going out there with him. Never encouraged him. Never let him think it was a good idea.

So, there was a space at the dinner table. There was an empty room in the house. There was an open end. I was leaking out. He wasn't there to plug the hole in the family. There were his mates coming round tear stained and Popsi would make tea and try and pull it together. Rosa lay in bed for hours. John started seeing a doctor. Me? Well no one had outright said it but I could feel the blame. I thought I could anyway. I never stuck around much. I tried not to be mean to Popsi. I tried not to be savage. I tried not to lash out at strangers because they didn't know what was wrong with me. But that was too hard. I'd go out with boys and Melissa and our old friends from school and I'd get too drunk, and they'd look at me like they were frightened, uncomfortable. I would ruin everyone's night. I'd get us chucked out of the club for doing lines in the bathroom. I'd have sex with people's boyfriends and get into fights. I moved out into a flat with Melissa but she didn't fully trust me. She'd leave for uni as I'd be getting home. I'd get high all day and leave when she got back, with or without her. She worried about me but wouldn't voice it for fear of provoking an attack. I wasn't picky about who I'd screw over.

 

I stopped letting myself love people. I fucked for pleasure and vengeance. I put my heart in a metal case and threw it into ocean and waited for daylight.

 

Eventually I realised what I was doing to the people around me and I slowed down a little. But instead of mending. I just went quiet. I went weird. I couldn't have fun anymore. I couldn't talk about things with Melissa because we no longer had things in common. I couldn't pretend to be interested in Popsi's job. Everyone else was mending. But I couldn't. I'd thrown my heart into the ocean, spinning, as far out as I could. There was no way of getting it back. So I took off.

Two years ago he fell.