Promise the Sky

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ben

 

 

 

The crockery rattles and though I swallow my temper she continues to speak.

"I tried, Ben, you know I did." She shakes her head. "We both did."

"It is getting better." I growl.

"No, Ben." She does not look at me, focusing intently on the dirty dishes as she breaks my heart. "It is not."

The china on the shelves, already patched together a hundred times over with cheap adhesive, shivers again. And I beg it to stay still, just a little longer, just so it does not ruin my point, just long enough to patch my relationship with a similar substance.

The windows rattle. I grit my teeth.

"If we argued less, it would be easier to control." I say.

"Ben!" She whirls furiously towards me, her hair whipping out around her shoulders. Behind her, tiny waves have begun to form in the sink. "All we ever argue about is this! What do you expect me to do? I spend my life mopping up puddles and gluing back together the things that I love."

I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on keeping everything under command.

"We are the only house in the whole village that doesn't have a fire. A fire, Ben! What grown man cannot be trusted with fire?"

I take a deep breath. But I can feel the wind now, no amount of determination will still it.

"Sinead." I warn.

"No!" She snaps. "Don't Sinead me. Don't threaten me. This is my house and I am sick of you breaking it."

A gust tugs at my shirt; stronger, faster.

"You can't kick me out, Sinead." I all but beg. "I'm practicing, I promise I really am. It's just difficult. I don't know why, maybe I'm not like normal people, maybe the elements are harder to control than other magic, but I really am getting so much better."

"Open your eyes, Ben."

"I'm trying to concentrate."

"Well why don't you take a look at what your concentration is doing?"

Tentatively, I obey.

My kitchen has become the centre of a hurricane. Nothing has smashed yet, though we both know it is only a matter of time. The curtains are almost horizontal, tugging desperately at their bindings and Sinead's hair flies wildly about her head. As I realise that all my concentration has done is protect myself, the boundary falls.

A solid wall of air hits my body, a sudden rush of magic and vengeful element. My eyes sting, vulnerable in the onslaught, and I stagger backwards, winded.

And though I struggle, struggle desperately against my own magic, Sinead stands strong. She has barely moved, only her hair whips around her head. In a few seconds, this room has flooded with magic, my magic, and the elements fight back their response. I have turned our home into something wild, untameable, the perfect storm in miniature; only as large as it needs to be to destroy the things I love.

A window flies open. Slamming deafeningly against the wall, it continues to flap wildly in the wind.

And none of it, none of it, compares to the thunder in Sinead's eyes.

"Look at the sink." She says.

The sink is empty, where before it had been almost full. But the side is dripping, the familiar puddle already forming on the floor. As my heart fills with guilt and the realisation of something that I refuse to admit to myself, not just yet, the wind picks up. The drips turn to spray.