Words, Words, Words

It’s been exactly one week since I last saw Amelia; seven days without any contact. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t thought about her at least once or twice a day. But I can’t say I’ve been obsessing over her. I feel terrible, leaving her on her own to deal with her issues. And every time I look at Tom, I can tell the guilt is nagging at him as well. But we discussed it and came to a conclusion – when somebody else’s problem become your priority and not their’s, it’s time to let go.

Amelia wasn’t going to stop if Tom and I had babied her. If we had stayed, things would have only gotten worse. We’d have been the ones stressing out while she did the next reckless thing to her body. It was good that we were gone. And I know at some point, I’m going to believe this. But for now, I’ll deal with the guilt and hide it under a smile.

Which is exactly what I’m doing at the moment. My mother had woken her two grumpy sons this morning for a family breakfast. She explained, as she attempted to tidy my bedroom while Tom went to the bathroom, already awakened, “that she was just feeling a little lonely without her boys.” Of course, when these words passed through her lips, I couldn’t help but feel terrible for not really showing my appreciation for my mother for quite a while. So I sat up in bed and smiled at her, telling her I’d be down in just a minute.

I arrived downstairs to see piles of breakfast foods assorted on the dining table; pancakes, muffins, fruits and cereals all lined up, ready to be devoured. My stomach growled with delight as I sat down beside my brother and began shoveling plate onto my food. And that is where I am right now, picking pieces here and there to stuff into my mouth as I fill my plate.

My mother comes in with a carton of orange juice in one hand, a newspaper in the other. Her glasses sit at the tip of her nose as she scans the article, mesmerized. She sets the carton down beside my plate and then leans against the table, putting a hand to her hip.

“When was the last time either of yeh boys said a word to Lia?” She asks, folding the paper in half and looking at both Tom and I, worried. I glance over at Tom whose cheeks are round with food. He’s staring back at me with wide eyes. We both look up at my mother and shrug.

“Erm, dunno. ‘Bout a week, I guess. Why?” I ask cautiously, furrowing my brow. My mother’s face saddens as she lets out a small sigh. She drops last week's newspaper onto the table and says, “Well if I were yeh, I’d check up on her.”

I curiously watch my mother walk away before glancing at the paper. The title, thick and bold, catches my eye immediately and makes my stomach churn into a tight knot.

“JAMES MAURICE; Sheffield’s infamous business man caught in a kiss.”

“Yeh have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Tom grumbles as he reads over my shoulder. I stare at the paper, catching keywords as I scan the article. And by the time I’m done, I’ve completely lost my appetite. The guilt has washed over me completely.

“Let’s go,” I mutter under my breath. I scoot my chair back and turn around, walking towards the door. I slip my shoes on quickly before turning to Tom, “Come on, Tom! Get yeh arse out of yeh damn chair and get a move on!”

“Olleh, we can’t go jus’ go to her house uninvited after we abandoned her!” Tom yells back. His tone is angry but the emotion in his eyes tells me he’s scared; scared of what he might see when we arrive at Amelia’s house, scared of what she’ll say or do. And so am I.

“Well we’re ‘bout to,” I grumble as I open the door and walk out, leaving it wide open for Tom to follow. When he walks out of the house, obviously hesitantly, I’m already in the car, the engine running. He strolls slowly over to the passenger seat and gets in, taking his time to close to the door and put on his seatbelt. When he finally does, I back out of the driveway and speed down the street.

“It always happens to Lia,” I hear him whisper under his breath.

Those are the only words passed the entire way there.

__________________________________________________

I’ve rang the doorbell three times and knocked more than enough on the crimson red door, but no one has answered. I glance into the window but see nothing even stir inside. Amelia’s car is still parked in the driveway, as is her mother’s, so I know they must be home. But still, as my finger pushes the small white button a forth time, and the loud echo of the bell rings inside, no one moves to see who’s waiting.

“Oh, move over, Olleh,” Tom snickers, shoving me aside. I glare at the back of his head with an obvious sneer on my face as he looks under the mat and under the numerous plants surrounding the door until he finds what he’s looking for and shows it to me.

A key.

“What the hell, Tom?” I ask. Tom turns to me as he shoves the key into the lock and gives me a look. I stare at him a moment, flabbergasted by his idiocy, “Yeh couldn’t have found the fuckin’ key like, oh, I don’t know, two minutes ago?”

He shoots me a dirty look and twists the key. The copper lock squeaks as it turns from the inside and Tom pushes the door open, welcoming himself in. I follow behind, feeling my heart race as I shut the door behind me and glance around. Nothing seems out of place; all the picture frames have remained untouched and the items that belong to Mr. Maurice are laid out where they had been before. The only change that’s noticeable is the intensified tension and the extremely cold, crisp air that has occupied the house.

“I’ll check downstairs, yeh check upstairs,” Tom whispers to me as he slowly creeps towards the living room. I roll my eyes at him. We both know that Amelia and her mother are probably upstairs in their bedrooms, being eaten away by their own problems. But I decide to let it go and sluggishly take each step up the stairs. For once, my eyes don’t stare at the photographs cascading along the wall. They stare fearfully at Mrs. Maurice’s closed bedroom door. If I had thought my heart was beating all too quickly before, it was about to burst out of my chest at this point.

I make my way down the hall, going straight to Amelia’s bedroom. The door is open only a little and I can feel my palms getting sweatier the closer I reach it. My hand raises just enough to touch the wood door and push it open – only to reveal absolutely nothing.

Amelia’s bedroom is just the way I left it a week ago. CD’s, books and clothes can be found here and there on the floor. The framed posters are still hanging on the maroon walls. The only thing missing is Amelia. I feel my heart slow down a little as I wonder where she is – her closet, downstairs, the bathroom?

I turn around and sigh softly, my teeth catching my lip ring and flicking it with my tongue. I see Tom walk up the stairs and shoot me a look that I can clearly read. He’s wondering where she is; why I’m standing outside her bedroom rather than going in and talking to her. I shrug and walk towards him – we meet in the middle of the hallway.

“She’s not downstairs,” He states the obvious. And just as the words leave his mouth, Mrs. Maurice’s bedroom door opens and Amelia steps out, closing the door behind her.

Her hair, that has obviously not been washed for days, is pulled back in a messy bun. Her face has been washed of all make up, clearly showing off the dark circles under her eyes. A grey sweatshirt clings loosely to her body but her black, spandex booty-shorts are tight and show off her thin, slightly bruised legs. As she stares at Tom and I, her hands grip a tea cup tightly.

“Amelia,” Tom exhales. He inches towards her but she takes a small step back, her eyes remaining on us. And in a flash, she’s swiftly making her way down the stairs, practically running towards the kitchen. Tom and I exchange an anxious look before following her down the stairs. When we enter the kitchen, we find her leaning over the sink, her hands balancing her body against the granite. I can see her swaying slightly back and forth as she stares down at the large pile of dirty dishes, “Amelia, please.”

Her breathing increases, growing louder and faster as Tom gets slowly closer. And it happens all in a flash; Tom reaches out to touch her and she quickly shoves him away with a terrified scream. He falls backwards, losing his balance and tripping over his own feet. His back collides harshly with the white tiled floor as Amelia shrinks into the corner of her kitchen, in between drawers and cabinets. She whimpers loudly as tears stream down her face, watching Tom groan.

“Wha’ the mother of fuck, Lia?!” I cry out. I rush over to Tom and help him up quickly, rubbing his aching back as he grabs his head with a moan. When he’s alright, I look over at Amelia with a remaining shocked look on my face.

She avoids my gaze and shoves one of her hands up her sleeve. I can see movement underneath the thin material of the sweater sleeve as she sniffles in her corner and looks down at her feet. Tom stays behind as I get a little closer.

“Amelia, wha’ are yeh doin’?” I ask lightly. When she doesn’t respond, I inch even closer.

“Stay away!” She shrieks, her eyes remaining on the floor. But I ignore her loud command and take two swift steps toward her. I grab her arm viciously as she screeches and squirms but I don’t let go. Instead, I push the sleeve up to her reveal her lower arm covered in scabs, bruises and fresh blood. My eyes go wide with surprise and she finally breaks free, moving only slightly away from me as she doubles over in tears.

“Amelia, take off yeh sweatshirt,” I order. She ignores me though, shaking her head a small amount and wiping the tears from her eyes as she coughs – it’s a dry cough and it tells me that she hasn’t been drinking enough water. I choose to deal with that later though and repeat myself, louder, “Amelia, take off yeh fuckin’ sweatshirt!”

She doesn’t listen to me, instead just remains crying, moaning and groaning as she looks anywhere but at me. I snicker and realize that she isn’t going to budge. Sighing angrily, my hands grab at the bottom of the sweater and pull. She yells at me to stop over and over, at the top of her lungs, trying her hardest to shove my arms away. Her body’s too weak compared to mine and I win the battle, pulling the material over her head and throwing it to the floor. The sight is less than unpleasantly terrifying. It’s worse than I’ve seen it before.

She’s only wearing a sports bra underneath and she’s thin – too thin. She hasn’t yet hit complete rock-bottom but it’s obvious that she’s getting there. Her once pretty olive skin is pale and blotched with red, purple and yellow bruises. But the most horrifying part are the scabs and marks of dried blood all over her arms and stomach. The skinny lines are unmistakably scratch marks, done by none other than her. In certain places, where she has been picking and scratching at more than the rest, the skin is pealing off by small chunks.

I back away from her, appalled. Never has she looked so broken. She’s a complete mess, tears running down her face, her body in ruins. This is Hurricane Amelia, at her all time low. I back up all the way into Tom and he grabs me by the arms from behind, stopping me and holding me up for support, though I can feel his own body shaking.

Amelia’s dead hazel eyes look up at us, straight at both Tom and I, and she whispers so softly, that I have to read her chapped lips to make out what she’s saying,

“I need help. I hate the body I’m trapped in.”