Slate | ✓

FOUR | WILL

You're a burn victim. Give him your best victim speech.

The word lodged itself somewhere under my skin the second it left Athena's mouth. No, maybe not under my skin, it is my skin. I resist the urge to prod the matting of scar tissue that forms at the base of my neck, causing craters and hills on the landscape of my shoulder. The damaged nerves around the injury have messed with my ability to feel much of anything.

    I have the sun warm on my face, and my sunglasses propped onto the bridge of my nose. John urged me to sit outside with Darcy and him after the mess that was this morning. It's their routine on the days John has off to watch the traffic go by and drink coffee. As they talk, I mechanically light the intermittent cigarette, sip on cold caffeine, and attempt to hold a stream of coherent thought.

    I'm so tired that the world feels like a soft, alien haze. Returning inside last night, still shaking, only to then climb into bed and find that my mind refused to shut off made me want to scream. I wanted to shout until the whole house was awake, like Henry does when he's missing Annie. I wanted Victor, Athena, John, anyone, to rub my back, fetch me a glass of water, and give me permission to fall asleep. More than anything, I wanted to believe that something like that would actually work.

    Instead, I smoked. Cycles of bargaining, anger, and endless frustration do nothing. There's always that feeling of missing everybody closest to me. They're present, but I'm not, and no matter how hard I try, it's like I can't get to them. They're all somewhere in the fog that thickens the more I attempt to wade through it.

    Existing, I've learned, is all about balance. Being so afraid of the empty side of my internal gauge, I never considered that panic attacks may be lurking on the other end of the spectrum. The current stillness of this middle territory is leverage against both extremes, though I can't tell which is worse.

    So why do they call me a victim? The title is something cold and heavy that sinks down my spine. I almost feel like turning to John, and asking, point plank: How could you think that about me? It feels like they've forgotten just how bad I got last spring, or worse yet, never noticed in the first place. I worked to find an equilibrium again after that. I got better, and I was in control. I am in control. To me, that is not the definition of victimhood.

    I must drift off because the next thing I process, John is shaking me awake. "If you're so tired, just go back to bed." There's a note of desperation mixed with annoyance.

Lifting myself out of the chair, and ignoring how the world tilts dangerously with the motion, I shrug. "I'm going to go make some more coffee."

"You really think that's what you need right now?"

I flop back down. "Alright, I'll stay right here. I'll participate." I balance my lighter on the end of my index finger. "What are we talking about?"

John won't back down. "You can't do anything if you're walking around half-asleep all the time."

"Going back to bed in the middle of the day won't help anything." I reply. "I'm fine. I'm awake, aren't I? Just tell me what we're talking about."

John bites down on his bottom lip, staring at me like he's trying to figure out what I am. Darcy places a hand on my brother's knee. "Are you going to volunteer at the school again this year?"

I regret asking. "Uh," I stumble over Darcy's question. "I don't know, I haven't really thought about it."

John perks up, something like encouragement colouring his voice. "Yeah, that's a great idea. It would only be, like, ten hours a week, even less if you wanted. You used to love working there."