Strawberries

I still love you.

Or, rather, I want to still love you. But people never change - if they ever do, it’s for the worse. You’re still my brother, which is why I’m not looking for revenge or anything of the sort. Karma seems to be beginning to take care of that for me.

Standing in the mirror before bed, I run my hand over my blackened eye from the carnival incident. I wonder if you remember how I got it.

I press two fingers against my right eyebrow. My head is pounding, and when I touch it I can feel it pulsing, like something’s going to pop out. I want to throw up. Throw everything up. The food I just ate. Emotions. Memories.

But when I lean over the toilet, my stomach betrays me and nothing comes out, though my stomach keeps churning. I can’t tell what I’m feeling. Guilt? Shame?

Rubbing my eye, your face keeps hanging in my mind. Yes, I do feel guilty for this morning. What scares me the most is how close I actually was. I would have done it. And then what?

I’d be as bad as you. Worse? Maybe.

My stomach feels like there’s a rock in it. I try to force myself to throw up, but my stomach’s empty. Nothing comes out. The bedrooms freezing cold, no matter how many blankets I pile on top of my body. I hate the part of me that just wants to go hurt you for everything you’ve caused me.

Getting to bed tonight is especially difficult. I hear you walking around in the kitchen, opening and closing a drawer, and I hear the clatter of plates.

I keep thinking about you and Rory. What she did to you. As mad as I am at you, you didn’t deserve to get hurt by her - just for wanting to break it off. Every time I close my eyes, images of you just pop right back into my mind.

And then I tell myself that you deserve it, that what she did to you doesn’t even begin to make up what you did to me.

But it’s my fault too. Maybe I should have said something. I hadn’t said anything because it didn’t seem like that big of a deal at first. We’d been perfectly happy together, and it’d been that way for a while. You stated ‘dating’ a girl named Jen, just not to let suspicious arise. And I thought nothing of it because I trusted you. You slept with another girl - once - and I let you, because I still wasn’t ready to at that point.

Now, looking back, I guess I should have said something before we got to this point. Although, you knew at the time you were hurting me, as proven by the carnival incident.

I close my eyes, making my body relax. I manage to sleep through the night, if in small naps and waking up every half hour.

I get out of bed when it’s finally light outside. Getting up brings a pounding headache and nausea. I head to the kitchen though I can’t even think about holding down anything solid. I pass by the den door and stop there for a moment. The doors locked.. Which doesn’t surprise me, but it makes me worry. Are you scared of me now?

“Jay?” I knock softly. You don’t respond - I knock again. “Jay?”

“Go ‘way,” I hear you groan through the door. I bite my lip.

“Jay, please? Open the door.” Don’t make me beg.

You don’t respond, and I shuffle into the kitchen. I’m looking through the fridge - I’m not sure why - when you do come into the kitchen. I look you over. Did you sleep at all last night? “You look like crap.”

“Thanks,” you grumble. “Do we have anything for breakfast?”

“I don’t know. I’m not making you anything.”

“Then why’d you wake me up?”

“Because you are not sleeping all day.”

Your tired eyes look down at the floor. “Whatever,” you mumble.

“Make some waffles,” I order, even though I probably won’t eat them. I’ll be pissed if you don’t. “I’ll be back downstairs in twenty minutes.”

I leave you in the kitchen and head back upstairs. I hear you rummaging around in the cabinets downstairs, looking for the waffle mix. I don’t know if we even have any. Ordering you around like a dog is the only control I have over you right now. And for once, the control feels good. My emotions keep bouncing back and forth. Sympathy. Love. Hatred.

A little while later, you call me back downstairs. There’s a stack of waffles on a plate in the center of the table, topped with syrup and butter, and a glass of milk next to them. You leave the kitchen silently as I walk in, head tilted towards the floor.

“Go into the living room.” I find myself saying. “Clean up a bit. You’re not cooping yourself up in your room all day.”

You nod and I just watch you leave, and sit down at the table, staring blankly at the waffles. Just looking at food makes me sicker. I slice off a piece and try to force it down, but then I have to run to the bathroom. And this time, I do throw up. My stomach’s empty so I don’t know what I’m throwing up - but it hurts.

I collect myself quickly. Why am I such a mess? it’s over. The relationship is over. You did hurt me, but why can’t I just get over it? I press my fists into my eyes angrily, wobbling back into the kitchen. I can’t bear to look at the food on the table. I drop it in the trash.

Why am I even still letting you live here? I don’t even know. I sit down on the kitchen chair and drop my head onto the table. I try to come to a conclusion. I don’t love you anymore. So why am I letting you stay? Do I just like the idea of having a dog to kick around?

That thought almost scares me. Maybe I do still love you. Maybe I just don’t want to lose you. That would explain why seeing those bruises on your arm made me want to cry and why I comforted you when you were crying.

How stupid am I?

And what’s going to happen to the baby now? Obviously, Rory’s not fit to be a parent, judging by what she did to Joe. Neither of us are ready to be fathers, but what’s going to happen to the kid?

I scream in frustration, pressing my face into my hands.

“Are you okay??”

You voice startles me so much that I flinch, my arm snapping backward and smacking the cup on the table onto it’s side, spilling all over. “Shit!” I shout. “What the fuck do you want?!” I turn and glare at you, getting up to grab a towel. You beat me to it.

“I-I’ll clean that.”

I snatch the rag from you. “No. It’s fine.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I raise an eyebrow at you.

“You screamed…”

“I’m fine. Just keep doing whatever you were doing.”

You rub your arm subconsciously. “Okay.”

I glare at your back, wiping up the spill as you go back into the living room.