Trying To Endure

Chapter Thirty-Seven

SONG: Ritt Momney - Put Your Records On (remix/cover of Corinne Bailey Rae's 2006 hit)

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Derek Matthews

I refreshed the page again, scrolled down to see #BodyBank is number thirty-five in the trending scale. The number of tweets decreased from fifty thousand to five thousand.

The Families truly killed Bodie Banks.

The Everstons truly killed Bodie Banks in cold blood.

Who assisted them? First, second, fourth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth or tenth?

What the hell did you know, Bodie?

What did you know that made people wish death upon you?

Divinity fighting man — on the internet. My Family or the others are controlling the increase and decrease of content. Systematic media. If they are truly involved in Bodie's death, they don't want an uproar of viruses in a computer system. They don't want issues, don't want mistakes. If the content is too much, if the attention is too much, they will ensure that it is a 'trend' for a week or two. After, gone, as if it never happened.

Bodie was a black working-class boy killed by predominantly-white and upper-class people. A horrible title to a raging society.

I pick up the polaroid, my right thumb drifting across my parents face. If I were Alexandra Matthews, why would I conceal two polaroids of time in an object of virtue, in plain hidden sight? I peer at the amphora vase, rummaging through all the details I know of it. Bloody hell, I can't remember anything. Why in the lake house — is the edifice a clue? It has to be, or else Mum wouldn't put it here.

The smudges of radiance and glittery decorations in the background.

Hang on a second.

Celebration.

Fancy clothes.

This is —

Resting on the windowsill, Atlas rises at the opening door. April enters, our presence unnoticed, the light of the laptop unrecognised. She rubs her eyes, yawning as she approaches a kitchen counter, filling a cup of water.

Directly behind her, I whisper, "Hello."

She spins. An instant discern of a dark figure, she screams. The glass falls. I fluently catch it, my other hand clamping over her mouth, gushes of water splattering the floor. Snickering, her chest heaves and heaves, sinks and sinks. In the moonlight, recognising me, her fear resides, superseded by pique. She tries to wrench my hand off, pinching my wrist when I don't bulge. I almost did the second she licks my palm.

"I'll let go if you won't scream." She narrows her big eyes, her head tilted upward. I could hear her mentally screaming a thousand profanities. "Blink three times if you understand." She blinks three times. "Good."

Lowering my arm, she smacks my chest. "Asshole, you scared me!"

I give her the glass. "That was the intention." Scowling, she fills the glass. I soak the water on the floor with a sponge. "Can't sleep?"

Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she inspects the laptop. "What are you doing?"

"Doing some research." I slant backward on the kitchen island, observing her rinsing the glass, setting it on the drying rack. She is wearing sagging bottoms — tightly swathed around her slender waist — a long-sleeved jumper, socks on, hair still in a braid and embedded with crisping water lilies. "That painting of Bodie — you did that, didn't you?"