Sleepwalking

My fingers tug at the hem of the shirt you’ve been trying to get me to throw away. It’s riddled with holes; scarred by gashes in the sides from many too good nights out. And a few fucking terrible nights out.

But it’s mine. And it’s his. And not yours.

So it’s not going to happen.

One foot in front of the other, I eventually find myself in the bathroom. My toes curl on the Jarrah floorboards.

Water gushes from the faucet and my hands clench the sides of the sink. My face looks ghostly in the mirror, my eyes demonic. The curve of my lip, and that scar just above it…

You’d say it’s his fault.

I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.

“Jay?” you ask, yawning. I turn my head and watch how the moonlight illuminates your bare chest.

“Hmm?”

“You awake?”

“Yes.”

“Were you sleepwalking again?”

“No. I just needed to-”

“Why is the water running?”

“Oh.”

I frown as I realise it’s still pounding through the rusted pipes, even splashing onto my feet. You just shake your head, walk over and twist the handle off.

Hands on my waist, my back up against your chest, and you kiss my neck.

“Come back to bed,” you whisper and I just nod.

When you tell me you love me, all I do is nod.

I don’t think you’ve noticed.

*

“Wait here, Jay,” he says. I smile and lock my door. He ruffles my hair then pulls the cash out of his wallet. I’m twelve years old, and I can’t imagine having that much money in my hands. But this is a regular thing for him. He needs it.

“I’ll be back soon, little bro.”

He leaves and I get that sinking feeling in my gut again. When I watch him walk away, I lose him for days.

*

“Jay?” You’re frustrated. You’ve got that tension in your voice that tells me I’ve done it again. This time we’re in the middle of the supermarket.

“Sorry, what?” I ask obliviously. Clearly I haven’t answered some important question about what fucking cereal we’re buying this week.

“Forget it,” you say and chuck a box in the cart.

I go and wait by the car like a child. Because lately that’s what I am to you.

*

“Jay, I think you need help,” you say over dinner.

Here it comes.

“I don’t…ever since he-”

“Don’t,” I snap but you press on anyway.

“-Passed, it’s like you’re not even here. It’s been a year, Jay. A whole year.”

“So?” I spit.

“I just want to help you. I’m worried.”

I can hear it in your voice. Sure it sounds genuine, but I really don’t – can’t – care.

I pick up my plate and throw it against the wall.

I can hear you jump in your seat, and the spaghetti seeps down the wall.

I pretend I don’t hear you crying when I leave.

*

“We should just go. You and me, Jay. You and me. No rules, no Mom and Dad, just us and the road. It’ll be great!” he says, excitement in his voice. He paces as I sink further into the bed. I don’t want to leave, but I love him too much to let him down. And I can see it on his face how much this means to him. He needs this like he needs oxygen. He needs this like he needs it.

And I’m the only one who can make sure he gets that kind of happiness.

I tell him, “Okay.”

*

I was nine years old when we left, and we lasted almost three years on our own.

The mirror in his room is still smashed from that time he threw a bottle of bourbon at it. I can see my gaunt face reflected in every single one of the pieces that are somehow still intact.

The shadows in his room are even bigger than I remembered – and I remember that night so clearly. The way his face lit up in the dark with the insanity in his eyes, how all I could see was his face and utter blackness…I wish I could forget that night, but it’s something too important to let go.

I suppose the dead leave bigger shadows than the living.

“Kevin called.”

I look up and see my mom in the doorway. Her face is as round and lovely as ever, but she looks like she’s just aged ten years peering into this room.

“How many times?” I ask with a humourless chuckle.

“He’s worried,” Mom says then sits down next to me on the bed, albeit tentatively.

I look down at my hands, which have just become really interesting.

“I know.”

“Do you love him?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You used to,” she tells me. “I thought you’d finally gotten away from Neil, that you were happy.”

“I can’t ever get away from Neil. He’s always here,” I say.

I feel a tugging on my holey shirt.

“Yes, I can see that. What I don’t understand is why you suddenly need him, now he’s dead. You never did before.”

“That’s your son you’re talking about,” I inform her with venom.

“I still love him. But Neil had his problems and he put them on you. He’s gone and he’s still got this hold on you. I just think it’s gone too far, Jay. You need to wake up.”

She then kisses my cheek and leaves me alone.

*

“Jay,” Neil breathes. My hand is still on the door handle. You’re in the kitchen, making us dessert (you make the best cheesecake I’ve ever had), singing to yourself.

And Neil’s in front of me, his favourite holey shirt on, trembling legs, bloodshot eyes and a twitch in his left cheek.

“Neil, what are you doing here?” I hiss.

“C’mon, little bro. I need somewhere to crash,” he slurs.

“You can’t stay here,” I tell him and his face drops. Suddenly he’s crying. And he’s screaming at me. And beating his hands against my chest.

“Haven’t you fucked up my life enough? Just leave me alone, Neil,” I say, push him off me, then slam the door in his face.

He was found in a park the next day.

*

You open the door before I can knock. You look like you haven’t slept in days. I know I haven’t, so I can’t look much better.

“Jay.”

“I…we need to talk,” I say and panic flashes in those stupidly beautiful ocean eyes of yours. But you still open the door wider and let me lead us into the living room.

“Do you want a coffee?” you ask nervously. I shake my head.

“You were right. I need help.”

You look like a teenage boy whose girlfriend’s just told him she’s pregnant.

“I’d been looking after him since I was old enough to walk, you know. I was nine when we ran away, and I was responsible for him. He was fucking sixteen years old, and I was the responsible one. Then you…you made me feel so fucking wonderful. Everything he touched turned to shit. And that night when I chose you and me over him, I felt so free. And the idiot ended up dead.”

“You thought it was your fault,” you say like you’ve known this all along. I mean you probably have, but I’m trying to have my dramatic moment of epiphany here and you’re kind of ruining it.

“I want to burn this,” I tell you, holding up the shirt. “I…I’m ready to wake up.”

*

We’re lying on the bed and I feel like I haven’t looked at you in months. I’d forgotten how your face brings butterflies to my stomach every time like this is still our first date. I could kick myself for it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper and you get that crease between your eyebrows like you’re looking at a math problem.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I smile and pull you closer, so I can kiss you. Finally.

You still taste like cinnamon sugar, and use the same brand of aftershave I got you for Christmas a few years ago. Your fingers still like to trace up and down my bare spine, making me shiver. Your dark hair still falls in your eyes when you lay on your side and I remember why you’re so important.

“I love you,” I say.

You of course have a nice, smartass reply to that.

“Took you long enough.”