Forgetting Sylva

Flood

I am restless, tonight. I almost wish for dreams, even ones that might break me; anything to escape. But dreams require sleep, and I am as far from sleep as a person could ever be.

I turn my head to the side and look at my clock; the numbers blink at me, on and off. It is ten o'clock, and I am usually asleep by now. But tonight I am alone; I asked mum and dad to leave me by myself, and they did, looking a little worried. And now their worry has carried on into other aspects of their lives, and they are awake in the other room, and I can hear the low buzz of the television.

I try to remember the fish, in the aquarium, but all I can recall is the slow, age-old intelligence in the eyes of the turtle. And then the feel of Lance's arms around me. And then, not unexpectedly, the hurt in his voice, his eyes, the very way he held himself.

I groan and roll onto my other side, carefully, trying to forget the sharpness of his pain. Why do I have to do this to people? Why is it so impossible to live life without making marks upon people, marks that are more often than not scars?

In the other room, dad's phone rings, and the sound of scuffling feet and soft swearing muffle the bright, underlying tune of the Popeye theme song. I smile slightly, and then the sound is cut off. 

"Hello?" dad says, and mum shushes him, so that the next time he speaks I can only hear the vague sound of his voice, rather than the shape of the words. 

He speaks for a few moments, sounding reluctant. And then I hear feet in the corridor, and mum's angry whisper. "I'm just checking if she's awake! The boy's a mess!" I almost laugh, and then I realise what he said. 

I push myself up to a sitting position, gripping my bedside table to help. My door glides open, softly.

"Dad? Is that Lance?" I ask. 

The door opens fully, and dad steps in, his phone in his hand. "I told you she'd be awake," dad says to mum over his shoulder. 

"Shut up and give her the phone, Michael," mum says, but there is a weary, fond amusement in her voice. 

"Your boy," dad says, passing me the phone. I take it, feeling a small ache inside me at the words. But I smile, for him, and dad backs out grinning, without another word. The door closes behind him with a slight click, and then everything is silent. I put the phone to my ear. 

I can hear the sound of him breathing on the other end of the line; the steady in and out, in and out. I wonder if he is hearing my breaths just as I am hearing his; mine are definitely not as steady. 

"Hey," I say, softly. His breaths stop, for a moment. 

And then he says one word, an exhalation. "Syl."  He does not sound like himself: the Lance I know is in control, sure and capable and contained, the only visible emotion inside of his eyes, and the slight, almost imperceptible softening of his expression. This Lance has a voice filled with emotion, and it scares me a little.

I wait. "I'm sorry," he says, finally. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I tell him. 

He laughs quietly, and the sound makes me smile, because it is small and breathy and his. "I do. I'm acting like an idiot. Like a child throwing a tantrum because he didn't get what he wanted." I want to tell him that I'm sorry that what he wants is me, and I don't understand why I am who he has chosen, but I am so, so sorry. "I'm being unreasonable. Like it's only my choice, and not yours. Like you must feel the same way, when you clearly don't. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm being such an asshole. No one has the right to tell you what to feel and how to feel it. And that's sort of what I've been doing, isn't it? Trying to make you admit to something you don't feel." He is quiet for a moment. And then it stretches, on and on, and I realise that he is waiting for me to say something, but I cannot speak because I might start to cry and I don't want to do that because I am strong I am stronger than this I won't cry. "Syl?"