the long way home [ h.s. ]

Twenty Five | 25

twenty five | 25

☓

The day after my talk with Dad, I wake up feeling brand new.

Propping myself up in bed, I watch as the morning light filters through the soft cream curtains, touching every corner of my room. It's Thursday; my last day of freedom before I have to talk to Thomas' teacher.

Slipping on some comfy gray socks, I make my way into the kitchen and get the kettle started.

Thomas is awake early.

Humming beneath his breath, he sits atop one of the stools with his legs swinging back and forth-- his hair mussed from sleep, large blue eyes staring pensively into a bowl of Mini Wheats.

"Morning, Pooh."

"M-morning, P-piglet," he smiles, turning his attention towards me.

I haven't told him about Mrs. Shelby.

For some reason, I feel that it's best if I don't.

If things hadn't become as serious as they are, I might've been able to accept his silence; to wait patiently, encouraging him to speak up when the time was right. But once the bruises form, and the small scrapes and other markings appear on his skin, I don't have a choice. He's my brother-- not someone else's punching bag.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous for tomorrow. But ever since the phone call, I've become more and more protective. My tolerance is at a zero, and the desire to put whoever's responsible in their place is rising.

I can feel him watching me as I rummage through the tea drawer. I decide on the one that smells like lavender and honey, and stick the bag into an empty mug. Dad got it for Mom when he came back from San Francisco last summer; wide-rimmed, with small colorful landmarks painted on the side.

"How is the turtle feeling today?" I ask him over my shoulder. It currently sits right where he wanted it to, on the windowsill above the sink. A small heap of purple clay, slightly misshapen by his small hands, and yet it couldn't be more perfect.

"He feels f-fine," says Thomas, digging around his bowl for more cereal. "But h-he thinks-s it's g-going to rain soon."

"How can he tell?"

His response comes swiftly and without hesitation.

"He's a t-turtle. T-turtles can always t-tell."

The kettle whistles atop the stove, and I go to turn off the heat. Although I don't face him, I smile at the sound of his voice.

So gentle, so calm--

As if innocence itself became a noise.

☓

Harry and I skip the bus after school and return to the small diner.

We stay close together as we walk, his hands resting in his pockets, and mine folded together. He kicks little rocks beneath his feet, just like always.

It makes me smile.

Thinking of Thomas, I find myself searching the sky for any sign of rain. There's a cloud cover today, but the clouds aren't heavy; just silver and white, with their expansiveness shielding any chance of direct sunlight. This kind of weather is typical for late May.