Incendiary

15. The rooftop, darling

It had been 6 months since the accident. My body and my mind were moving at two different paces.

My body was the sea; My mind was the boat; I was the captain during the storm- just trying to stay afloat until shore.

Somedays, I couldn't even get up in the mornings. On the days that I could- I would wish I hadn't.

We had arrived on Tuesday morning, it was Friday afternoon, and I still hadn't unpacked a single box.

Yes- as a way to protest- but also because I didn't have the energy.

My parents were busy with important decisions like whether they should paint their bathroom walls Coventry Grey or Abalone.

They didn't have time to care about me or that I hadn't left this empty room since we had arrived.

I had become so dissociated from my feelings that I hadn't cried since my parents told my sisters and me that we would be moving.

That was 2 months prior.

I had cried so much that night.

Even if living in that house meant watching the once happy, full-of-life, and radiant house turn into an unfriendly, meaningless, and unpropitious space- I would bear it- especially if it meant living with what I had left of her.

My parents had decided- without my opinion- that living in the house where we had our last memories with her- the only person who made every house a home- was too much.

"A fresh slate," they called it.

It didn't feel fresh.

We had moved 10 hours away into a new house in the country.

The house was large and beautiful- It was something to be proud of- but how could you be proud of something that was bought to mask grief?

I knew that the accident had affected my parents too, but they never showed it, and it made me feel weak for showing that it affected me.

It also made me angry that they didn't display their pain. Maybe, if they did, I wouldn't have felt so alone.

My younger sisters were too young to care, so they ran around the damn house playing games and making new memories.

I couldn't be mad at them, but I wished I could.

I wished I could be mad at everyone.

I was mad at everyone.

So, very, painfully mad.

Even in the new house- filled to the brim with interior designers, painters, and builders- I still felt like I was the only one.

I felt suffocated, trapped, and I needed to taste freedom desperately. The only issue was mustering enough strength to reach out my hand and try to hold it.

If Estella were here, she would have taken me out for ice cream.

She would have gotten me out of this house by now.

Then again, if Estella were here- I wouldn't have felt the way I did.

If she were here- my dad wouldn't have already made a hole in the hallway outside of my room.

If she were here- my parents wouldn't be yelling at each other every night.

2-months later-