It’s not wedged between my mattress and box spring; it’s not stuffed inside my Neon City schoolbag; it’s not in the cupboards, it’s not in the freezer, and it’s definitely not in Judas’ booze cabinet, because the cabinet’s been locked for the past three days. Kory raids the pantry. It’s not there, either.
“Buy a new one,” Kory suggests, his mouth full with potato chips.
“But how can it have disappeared?”
Kory shrugs. “There’s always a logical explanation for these phenomena.”
Judas walks in through the front door. He looks tired and windswept, his eyes bruised with dark circles. He squints in our direction, the pair of us kneeling on the sitting room floor with our hands under the sofa.
“I’m not gonna ask,” Judas announces. He trudges into his bedroom.
I pull my hands out. I wrap my arms around my knees. Kory studies me carefully.
“It’ll turn up,” Kory says wistfully. “One of these days.”
I feel like I could start crying again. I don’t think it has anything to do with the brush.
* * * * *
Judas takes me for a checkup before the school term begins. The hospital is in the south of The Spit, taller than it is wide, top-heavy. Navigating its interior is like maneuvering through a maze: There are staircases where there shouldn’t be, desks standing in the middle of the floor.
The physician’s name is Dr. Moritz. He seems more interested in his clipboard than my head. He asks me vague questions and starts writing even before I’ve answered them. In the end he prescribes me yet another medication, which makes for a total of seven.
“I don’t like this,” I mutter.
I follow Judas out of the exam room. We leave the hub through big, gauzy glass doors, following the marble hallway to mahogany elevators. The hallway slants diagonally, then juts out into a random Z-shape.
“Statins are good for you,” Judas says. “Keep you from having another stroke.”
“Another?” I ask, stunned.
He presses the button beside the gigantic elevator. “You had one when you were in your coma.”
I feel like Frankenstein’s Monster, held together by scars and stitches and a plethora of drugs. I feel ugly, and ungainly, and like I shouldn’t be walking this world.
The elevator doors slide open. A boy brushes past us. I catch a sideways glimpse of brown curls.
I don’t know why, but I shiver.
* * * * *
Later that night I pack for school: my books, my brushes, my oil paints, my cell phone. I never did find the badger brush. I don’t bother with the canvases. The teachers usually provide those.
“I don’t know,” Judas says, lingering in my room.
“You don’t know what?” I ask him.
“You could take a year off,” Judas says. “Scholarship money’s yours. They’ll freeze it until you get better.”
I don’t think I’m going to get better. I don’t think brain damage is something you get better from.
“It’s okay.” I muster up a smile for him. “I’ve even got a bodyguard now. I’ll be fine.”
He quirks his eyebrows, but says nothing. He leaves me to my packing—and my thoughts.
I never realized how insignificant my life was until it changed. Something devastating happens, and you expect the world to hold still with you; but it doesn’t. The world is busy with plans of its own. Where do we as human beings fall on those schematics? Are we just the afterthought? It seems needlessly cruel to me that the world keeps spinning on its axis, as though it doesn’t realize it’s a few precious people lighter. But then, who were they precious to? To me. To Jocelyn’s parents. Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe this is the world’s way of telling us our feelings are inconsequential.
I can’t believe in a world so cruel. I don’t want to. So I won’t.
I pick up the pen and the post-it pad sitting on my bedtable. Call Jocelyn’s parents , I write
“Buy a new one,” Kory suggests, his mouth full with potato chips.
“But how can it have disappeared?”
Kory shrugs. “There’s always a logical explanation for these phenomena.”
Judas walks in through the front door. He looks tired and windswept, his eyes bruised with dark circles. He squints in our direction, the pair of us kneeling on the sitting room floor with our hands under the sofa.
“I’m not gonna ask,” Judas announces. He trudges into his bedroom.
I pull my hands out. I wrap my arms around my knees. Kory studies me carefully.
“It’ll turn up,” Kory says wistfully. “One of these days.”
I feel like I could start crying again. I don’t think it has anything to do with the brush.
* * * * *
Judas takes me for a checkup before the school term begins. The hospital is in the south of The Spit, taller than it is wide, top-heavy. Navigating its interior is like maneuvering through a maze: There are staircases where there shouldn’t be, desks standing in the middle of the floor.
The physician’s name is Dr. Moritz. He seems more interested in his clipboard than my head. He asks me vague questions and starts writing even before I’ve answered them. In the end he prescribes me yet another medication, which makes for a total of seven.
“I don’t like this,” I mutter.
I follow Judas out of the exam room. We leave the hub through big, gauzy glass doors, following the marble hallway to mahogany elevators. The hallway slants diagonally, then juts out into a random Z-shape.
“Statins are good for you,” Judas says. “Keep you from having another stroke.”
“Another?” I ask, stunned.
He presses the button beside the gigantic elevator. “You had one when you were in your coma.”
I feel like Frankenstein’s Monster, held together by scars and stitches and a plethora of drugs. I feel ugly, and ungainly, and like I shouldn’t be walking this world.
The elevator doors slide open. A boy brushes past us. I catch a sideways glimpse of brown curls.
I don’t know why, but I shiver.
* * * * *
Later that night I pack for school: my books, my brushes, my oil paints, my cell phone. I never did find the badger brush. I don’t bother with the canvases. The teachers usually provide those.
“I don’t know,” Judas says, lingering in my room.
“You don’t know what?” I ask him.
“You could take a year off,” Judas says. “Scholarship money’s yours. They’ll freeze it until you get better.”
I don’t think I’m going to get better. I don’t think brain damage is something you get better from.
“It’s okay.” I muster up a smile for him. “I’ve even got a bodyguard now. I’ll be fine.”
He quirks his eyebrows, but says nothing. He leaves me to my packing—and my thoughts.
I never realized how insignificant my life was until it changed. Something devastating happens, and you expect the world to hold still with you; but it doesn’t. The world is busy with plans of its own. Where do we as human beings fall on those schematics? Are we just the afterthought? It seems needlessly cruel to me that the world keeps spinning on its axis, as though it doesn’t realize it’s a few precious people lighter. But then, who were they precious to? To me. To Jocelyn’s parents. Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe this is the world’s way of telling us our feelings are inconsequential.
I can’t believe in a world so cruel. I don’t want to. So I won’t.
I pick up the pen and the post-it pad sitting on my bedtable. Call Jocelyn’s parents , I write
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