Slate | ✓

FIVE | WILL

Once Damien satisfies his hunger, we both pass out. I manage to fall into it, as if over the edge of a cliff, and for once there is no resistance. Over the years, I've learned to recognize that sweet point between exhaustion and total system failure in which my brain is too overrun to fight me any longer. Too tired to dream or even move, it's the null space in which I can find respite.

It's not a fun cycle.

When Damien shakes me awake the room has darkened, and he's guided only by the light of his phone, a plastic bottle in hand. I'm about to snap at him when I realize that he's changed out of his work uniform, now dressed in a black shirt and jeans, his hair is smoothed back against his head. His eyes dance with energy as he flicks my nose, "Let's get going."

Groaning, I peel myself from the couch, my body suddenly feeling like lead. A blanket falls off my shoulders, bunching in my lap, and a glass of water sits on the coffee table adjacent to me. It takes me longer than it should to connect that somebody must have placed it there while I was sleeping, the blanket too. "What time is it?" I yawn, eyes watering.

Damien flips the phone around, checking the screen. "Half past nine."

I take a long pull from the water, my mouth dry. "Fuck, we slept all day?" I wipe my chin with the back of my hand.

"You slept all day, I left five hours ago." He stares at me expectantly, still buzzing.

When my mind pieces together what he wants, my mouth falls open. "No," it emerges higher than my normal voice, pleading, "let me sleep."

"Any other time, I would," he drags me up by my arm, "but not tonight. You're not dead yet, Will." He herds me towards the hallway. "Come on, you had a little nap, now you're as good as a spring chicken. Get dressed, and the girls will be hanging off of you."

"Fuck—" I almost stumble into Athena, who's materialized at the mouth of the room.

She's in her pyjamas, feet bare, and hair pulled back into a messy braid, dark eyes jumping rapidly between Damien and I. "Are you going to Patti's party?" She asks, voice strained.

"That we are." Damien gives her an easy smile, juggling the bottle from hand to hand.

"The two of you are going?" Athena echoes, incredulous. She points at me, "You're going?"

Her words to me this morning still rattle around in the back of my head. There was purpose in what she said, not a thought of hesitation. I trust Athena's anger more than anything else about her. It's constant in everything she does, from the photos she takes to uncertainty she inflicts whenever she doesn't come home for the night. Yet, if I were to ask for an apology, she'd happily give one, delivered in a flat tone of voice. She meant what she said, and I don't need to hear anything beyond that.

I clear my throat of any residual grogginess. "Yeah, I am. Problem?"

Her brow furrows, gaze flicking between the two of us once more, like she's making a split second calculation. "I'm coming with you," Athena declares, turning back in the direction she came. "I need to put on some makeup," she calls over her shoulder, holding up one finger. "Just give me, like, two seconds!"

Damien groans, planting himself onto the couch, feet hanging over the armrest. "We're never leaving," he takes a dejected swig from his bottle, face contorting at the taste.

"This is your fault."

He only acknowledges me with an exasperated wave of his hand.

As I walk towards my room, I shake out my limbs, trying to combat the lingering heaviness. My fingers brush the frames that line the hallway. Annie hung them throughout the house the day she moved in, almost three years ago. I still remember the face Athena pulled upon being dragged to the photo studio with the rest of us. The dumb expression I'm wearing in the portraits remains plastered all over the wall. It had been the same day Ella first agreed to go on a date with me, and nothing could have ruined my mood.

Despite the acne and gangly mess of limbs, or that, no matter how hard I tried to adjust it, the collar of my shirt couldn't hide the scarring, I'm glad Annie felt like decorating that day. The walls had been bare for four years, and if nothing else, it was something to make you forget what was missing. I think she'd been able to immediately sense what the rest of us had been vehemently ignoring.

Muscle memory tells me to avoid the vacuum, forever curled up at the end of the hall, outside the entrance to the room John and I share. The window is open, allowing for some cooler night air to flow through the room, planks of moonlight falling onto the carpet. It provides enough light to navigate the mess of clothing, books, and overcrowded furniture. John's bed is empty, meaning he's at Darcy's for the night, most nights recently. It takes a while for me to find clothing that doesn't completely reek of cigarettes, and once I do, I catch sight of myself in the mirror, almost by accident.

What stares back at me has my stomach turning in awful surprise. There's a horrible fragility in what I'm looking at, partly obscured by shadow, gaunt and tightly pressed. It's a strange version of me. This is what Victor sees, what everyone at school will see. It's what Charlie is going to greet in the place of a pudgy ten year old with an easy smile.

I don't quite recognize it, like there's something I can't fully understand. This is my face, after all. It's a strange disconnect, like the sensation of a hand brushing over the damaged nerves of my shoulder, the distinct recognition that something is gone, and it's not coming back.

Shaking my head, I barrel back out into the hallway, carefully closing the bedroom door behind me. A line of light stretches out across the carpeted hallway, emerging from Victor and Annie's bedroom, their door slightly ajar. I think I'm being quiet as I try to pass, but Annie's voice calls out to me. "Will? Is that you?"

Wincing, I turn back, pushing the door open further, and leaning against the frame. "Yeah?"

Their bed is illuminated by the blue light of a TV screen, a muted infomercial playing. Victor is wearing his reading glasses, sitting up with his back against the headboard of his bed, Henry pressed to his side, asleep, and wedged between his two parents. My father's calloused hand is extended to Annie, curled within her grasp, as she massages each arthritic knuckle, gently pressing into the knotted tendons. I can smell the pungent, mineral aroma of the prescription hand cream from where I stand.

"Your hands are bothering you again?"

Victor grunts, "I think it's just the weather that's causing it."

This is always his answer.

"Where are you going?" Annie questions, not looking up from her task.

"Out," I respond. "There's a party, I don't think it's too far."

"Athena going with you?"

"Apparently, yeah," I pause. "Hey, thanks for the blanket, by the way, and the water."

"That was your Dad," Annie's gaze defaults to Victor, clearly expecting him to say something.

Victor is hunched, looking worn and shriveled. He peeks at me over the reading glasses, grey eyes dull. "Is this a good idea for you, William?"

I straighten up. "I'm going now."

"Watch out for your—"

"Sister," I interject, already turning away. "I know, always."