Angel Grade (Wattys 2016)

16.The art of being heartless Pt.3

[Vanessa, present day]

Do you ever get that feeling where your chest is in so much pain you feel like you are going to suffocate? I am not talking about suffocating in the physical sense, more like soul suffocation. Like the only way to breathe is through crying.

Well, this is mostly what I did for hours after I found out my lover has 'accidentally' murdered my brother. I couldn't even begin to think of whether it had actually been an accident or if he had known full well it was my closest person in the world in that room. Even the suggestion of that made me so angry I took another ceramic decoration from the shelf and smashed it against the wall opposite me. And then I just collapsed back on the floor and cried some more.

Victor is gone. Gone. He's gone. I will never see his cute skinny face smile at me ever again when he wakes up all happy and hopeful and he knows, somehow, without us ever having to speak about it, that it is me who is giving him good dreams. I will never get to ruffle his way too long hair and have him shoo me away for ruining his 'style' or whatever it is emo kids have these days. I will never be home.

In case you haven't figured that out by now, I have never particularly liked my life. Hence the drugs and all that. But having my little brother around had helped me hold on to the hope that one day, when I have become stable enough to not go into three-day-long cocaine sprees at a time and manage to hold a real job, I will be able to save him from that awful family we grew up with. And watch him have the functional life that I have known for a long time I will never have.

Well that hope had burned down faster than the house in the fire which killed Victor. And here I was again, back where I had started, completely alone in a house full of strangers, who couldn't care less, and completely useless.

I didn't stop crying consciously as much as my eyes just dried up with the determination which started mixing with the pain in my chest. I stood up, slowly, because, what's the rush? I know I have one somewhere here, leftover from the days when I used it to crush my coke...

I didn't know how much time passed since I started looking for my razor, but as I was turning drawer after drawer upside down, my feeling of uselessness was gradually coming to a climax, until I had searched all of my purses and thrown the last one against the wall in frustration, letting out a desperate groan with it.

Might have been the whole eyes tearing up again, brain overloading with anger thing, but I swear I did not see Christopher standing in the frame of my door until he spoke.

'Even without the gift of sight I can tell what you are looking for, and thank God you didn't find it!' there was a joke in his voice, but not directed at me. It was more like a private joke with himself that he was reminded of.

'WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM YOU filthy ... ARGH!' I picked up one of the now-empty drawers from the floor and chucked it at him with whatever strength I had left after all the crying and the unsuccessful self-harm plan.

Much to my growing annoyance he not only swiftly avoided the flying object (seriously, how does he do that after so much alcohol?!), but he also let himself in and closed the door behind, instead of leaving like I had (not so) politely requested.

'Okay, Loch ness, I'll make you a deal' he said each word with a slow step towards me, like I was I wild animal and he was simultaneously trying to avoid angering me further and fearing he'd scare me off. Both were unlikely.

'You. Killed. My. Brother.' Now it was my turn to take steps towards him, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to intimidate him. Well, that didn't work out, so I was left standing less than two feet away from him by the end of my sentence and I was acutely aware of the stench on vodka.

'Technically, Luis did' he started to correct me but then saw the look on my face and gave up. 'Sorry.'

I am not sure what it was exactly about hearing him say it, but suddenly all the last shreds of put-togetherness I had mustered up to try and make him go away left me and I collapsed back on the floor, feeling even emptier now that the anger was gone.

Christopher sort of just stood there awkwardly for a few minutes watching me stare at the opposite wall like I was brain dead, before sitting down next to me and leaning against my bed, fixing his stare at the wall as well.

'You don't understand, Christopher. It doesn't matter if you are sorry or not, my brother is gone. I am now well and truly alone in this fucked up shit-hole of a world and I am as useless as they come. Who gives a shit about an orphan drug addict? You have no idea how much it hurts to just be. To have all these memories you don't want to have and all these dreams that would never be and a mind that never shuts up! I don't want...I can't be any more. '

It all poured out in one stream of words during which I didn't take a breath. I don't know why I told him this, considering he hates me and I hate him and I still had no idea why he was even in my room. But I told him nonetheless. And as much as my mind rebelled against appearing vulnerable in front of the person probably most set on destroying me, the tears decided to return on their own accord and just started streaming down my cheeks. Who even has that much water in their body?!

For a few seconds he was just looking at me without saying anything, as if truly stunned by the fact that I was even physically capable of crying. Or feeling for that matter. And then he managed to shock me once again – instead of gloating and making a comment about me being a wuss or something, as I would expect of him, or of trying to comfort me like I'd expect from a functional human being, he casually continued the sentence he'd started at least fifteen minutes ago as if I hadn't tried to knock him out and had a breakdown in the meantime.

'I'll make you a deal. I will tell you the story of how I became all fucked up. And then, if you'd still rather slit your wrists than stick around and make snide comments about my dead mother, you can knock yourself out'.

As I stared at him at a complete loss for words, he put his hand in the pocket of his ripped jeans and produced a razor. And by the dark smudges along one of the edges that hadn't come out I could tell he was either very clumsy at shaving or he knew where I was coming from.

It wasn't until my eyes met his again that I realised I still hadn't said a word. 'Deal?' he raised his eyebrows, clearly counting on my curiosity to prevail.

I nodded, mentally kicking myself for somehow having let him get to know me so well.