Slate | ✓

THREE | ATHENA

Once safely concealed by my bedroom door, slammed shut in a gratuitous display of adolescence, I massage my fingers into my forehead, like emotion can be released through pores. It's a motion Annie always seems to perform when I'm in the room. With Annie and I, it was hate at first sight. Something about the lines around her mouth when her lips press into a thin line of contempt and cheap lipstick, or how easily everyone else adjusted to weave her into the fabric of the household. It seemed like Victor meeting her online, introducing her to the family, unexpected pregnancy, and Henry turning two took place over the span of a week. She exists in the strange grey areas between girlfriend and wife, mother and step-mother, and lacks the qualifications to earn any title.

If she doesn't want to be here, she doesn't have to be. I don't care for people who pretend to be something they're not. The others don't see beyond the spite and aggression and underhand comments. The moment that woman opens her mouth and speaks a single honest word to me, all will be forgiven.

My Mother was similar, like she had one foot in two different worlds. Only when she got into one of her moods would she coddle Will and I, acting like the sun was shining out of our asses, baking our favourite dough balls. Inevitably, the clouds would return and she would lock herself in her room for three days straight. Will's disappointment seemed to absorb into his personality, and, at the time, I could only understand that our Mother must be a liar. That was that.

Annie is the exact same and she doesn't even realize it. The room we've made for her is vacant, wasted space. I know the others have resigned themselves to what's missing, but I refuse. Therefore, Annie doesn't go unchallenged, and Charlie gets a second chance. Either Charlie has changed and wants to make amends, or resumes his status as someone I don't need here. At least I'll have tried, whereas Will and John have doomed both Charlie, and themselves, to the gaping hole that was created seven years ago.

The same one that is eating Will from his feet up.

For this, there is no simple answer.

My dark, inscrutable eyes stare back at me from the cracked mirror. Confidence is attractive. Am I confident? I look confident. There is no softness to my appearance, it's all hard lines and angular features. I am a striking thing to photograph, though not in the same ways that urge me to capture Will on camera. With him, it's about documenting the rare hints of life in his eyes when he thinks no one else is looking, I have no such vulnerability in pictures. No matter how many I take, the product is always the same cultivated expression of detachment that instantly makes me feel distant from what I'm looking at.

Is that was confidence feels like? I'm reminded of my middle school mantra: fake it until you make it. I remember practicing graceful, unbothered expressions so the teachers at school wouldn't feel the need to pull me aside at recess.

I recreate the look now, the corners of my mouth turning up into a serene, half-smile, one that screams I'm fine. I'm out of practice. It doesn't reach the eyes, as I'm sure anyone who cares to look could tell. Ella will see; she knows the smile well. She's never been the type to put a show on for anyone, which I've always admired her for, even now. Her instincts for detecting bullshit are endearing but also why things with her are never easy.

The prospect of being alone with her sends me into a flurry of action. Seated before my mirror, I curl my hair and take my time meticulously drawing on the wings of my eyeliner, checking they're even, concealing any acne spots, and making sure my efforts look minimal. This is a different type of armour.

I'm ready hours before I need to be, and I'm surprised at the residual nerves that settle in the pit of my stomach. I decide to distract myself by scrolling through my camera roll, which contains the evidence of my summer. Strangers, blown-out pupils, and long nights I can't fully remember. The pictures are chaotic but capture a natural energy- my best work yet, by fucking miles. Instagram seems to agree; since I started posting them my follower count has skyrocketed. Is that worth spending time away from the house? Abso-fucking-lutely.