Torn Fragility

Alone in my room I leant my head forward onto my folded knees as my shoulders shook uncontrollably. My hands curled into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my soft skin. But the pain didn’t make the tears dry up magically, they only made me more conscious of where I was and what had just happened.

And of course she had seen me. She had seen my mutilation, my wasted muscles, my pale sunken cheeks. Especially that. I knew she had seen that.

Without warning I began to laugh, an abhorrent shocking sound, that tore through the thin fabric of my sanity even further, exposing the insatiable monster within. She had seen that, that which I allowed no one else to glimpse, which I had let slip in that brief moment of anger.

She had glimpsed my darkest and best kept secret. Poor little Rose.



Long, slender fingers settled on the rough etching. The hand trembled, caught in some private horror. There was the sound of tearing paper that ripped through the quiet house like a scream. He couldn’t allow what he had seen on that paper to come to pass. To make certain the image could not be recreated the torn halves were halved again, quartered, until minute scraps fluttered to the carpet like petals.

I woke up, a scream on my lips, still in the grip of the nightmare. But there was no looming figure at my desk, no dark demon destroying my art work. I stumbled out of bed and with a sigh I picked up the drawing of the night before, done in soft pencil strokes. My finest work yet. I had no idea how I had done it; usually I had to have the subject before me to make an accurate depiction...

My alarm shrilled.

“Breakfast! It’s already ten!” I yelled in panic, rushing to get day clothes on. I hesitated, then gathered up my dirty clothing from the days before into a bundle and totally forgetting myself I stormed into Smith’s room.

Dark eyes met mine and for a moment he held my gaze but then dropped his eyes. He was sitting on the edge of his bed facing the door as if he had been waiting there for a very long time. He looked like he was in pain.

“Is...is something wrong?” I stuttered then backtracked quickly. “I’m sorry for barging in like this! And for breakfast being late...”

But he didn’t respond, his thin shoulders just seemed to sag in further. I started. He was painfully thin under his overlarge shirt and cargo pants, he was ridiculously pale with sunken cheeks and dark rings under his eyes. Didn’t he have enough to eat? It was as if something ate him up from the inside out.

“I won’t be long, let me just get your dirty clothes and breakfast will be up in a few minutes,” I said hurriedly bending to pick up a dirty shirt that was lying on the floor a few feet before me. Usually I was never this nervous and on edge but my nightmare coupled with the stress of last night’s spectacle had me sorely tempted to run. Anywhere, just away.

As I snatched up a pair of linen pyjama pants there was a strange noise behind me, like someone choking. I turned quickly and found to my consternation Smith looking at me intently, his look sullen but pleading at the same time.

“I’ll be back now now,” I told him wondering at the look. Was he hungry?

But as I past him he grabbed the back of my shirt and I looked down at him, very confused.
Comprehension dawned on me and turning bright red I asked, “You want me to help you to get to the bathroom?” He blushed bright red as well and shook his head, furious.

I felt extremely stupid for having asked that. Hannah had clearly told me that all she did was feed him, remind him to take his pills, clean his room and wash his clothes. Obviously he could do everything else himself.

“I’m sorry...Maybe if you write it down...” I suggested looking around and trying to distract myself from the atmosphere of the situation.

He pointed at a desk and walking towards it I came back with a pad of lined paper and a stubby chewed pencil. When I handed him the writing utensils I caught myself staring at his large eyes.

They’re beautiful, I wanted to say.

He snatched the items from me and after a few brief strokes he handed the pad back, not looking at me.

‘Help me downstairs. I want to eat outside today.’

I nodded and biting my lip I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and said softly, “How? You need help walking? Or should I carry you?”

He shook his head furiously darting me a venomous look. He reached up his hand and grabbed onto my right forearm. Tightly. He then levered himself up, slowly and haltingly. He gestured at the door with a quick tilt of his head and I began to walk, slowly, while he gripped onto my arm with both of his hands now. He stumbled and I reached out my free arm to catch him.
“Here,” I said calmly, and encircled his thin waist with my right arm. “Now we walk.”

He was barely taller than I was but maybe that was just because he was slightly hunched over. His mop of unruly black hair brushed my ear and I resisted the urge to sweep all of it out of his face. He could probably barely see.

We walked, my strides were shorter than usual to accommodate his stumbling shuffles. Both of us avoided looking at each other and when we finally made it to the stairs I couldn’t take the tension anymore.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said looking at the stairs askance. There were quite a lot of them.

“How about I just piggyback you? I’ve piggybacked my older brother before...But that was a few years ago...” I was musing to myself and didn’t realise I had said anything out loud until I felt Smith dig his nails into my skin. I hissed in pain and looked down at him about to give him a good talking to but he wasn’t looking at me.

His eyes were wide open and glued to the staircase. I could feel him trembling slightly. My anger evaporated. What had happened to this lonely haunted boy?

“Piggy back it is. I hope we don’t break our necks but let’s see if this works,” I whispered and released his clenched fingers from my arm.

Before Smith had time to respond I had knelt down in front of him. And he clutched the banister for support when my arm flew from around his waist. For a few seconds there was stillness and I was about to look back and make sure he was fine when I felt him timidly wrap his arms around my neck. I grabbed his legs from behind before he knew what was happening, gripped the backs of his knees in my hands and shakily stood up. He was surprisingly light. Much lighter than I had expected which had already been light to begin with.

His arms tightened around my throat and I wheezed out, “I can’t breathe!” His grip flew from my neck to my shoulders and without further delay I began to walk.

Down stairs.

It seemed like hours later when we reached the bottom and my knees gave in. Smith! I steadied myself against the wall and let him slide off.

“We’re alive!” I huffed and gave him a tentative smile. But Smith wasn’t paying attention to me. He was looking around him, his mouth slightly open.

It’s probably been a while since he’s been down here.

He started to walk forwards and I followed him like an anxious mother hen feared lest he come in the way of danger. But although his steps were still faltering he didn’t stumble and used the wall for support at odd intervals. And when we reached the front door, where only the screen separated us from outside the sun gingerly stroked our faces and Smith came to a complete stop.

“Another nice day,” I breathed out, a smile tugging at my lips. Smith didn’t respond but merely pushed the screen open and stepped outside. He came to the porch steps and I rushed forward but he held up his hand and I stopped halfway. He gripped the banister so tightly his knuckles shone white but he resolutely put one foot in front of the other and at the bottom. And at the bottom I saw him pause to dig his toes into the newly cut grass and from behind it seemed the sunlight laced his hair, giving the illusion of a golden crown.

“It really is a beautiful day,” I whispered to myself. He continued, faltering, onto the lawn and kneeled down before carefully turning around to lay upon his back. Even from here I could see his wonder.

I slipped back inside itching to put pencil to paper and extract the moment from my illusive mind. But food comes first.

And within an hour, with two empty plates next to me and Smith once again lying on the grass with his eyes closed, my hand flew over paper. I sighed contentedly, happiest when drawing, when creating, when capturing.

And with those strokes I captured Smith on paper, I captured his smile, and I captured the shreds of sunlight in my soul before they could escape.

But later that night they did.