1.1 | Lost & Found

xiv. blake

I N D I G O 

Here's a secret: Everyone, if they live long enough, will lose their way at some point. Some lose it quicker than others.

There was a point in my life, when waking up meant opening my eyes to a world of endless possibility and the wafting smell of summer fruit. It meant running down the short flight of steps from my room to the kitchen, where I would eat Mom's honey-glazed strawberries dusted with crystals of sugar that would catch the light, and end up refracting a rainbow of colours onto the pine wood table.

I wish I could say I don't know how it got this way. But I do. And I live with it, hanging over my shoulders like a death sentence everyday. It took me a long time to realise that not everything in life is meant to be a beautiful story. Not every person we feel something deep and moving with is meant to make a home within us, is meant to be forever. Even if they share your blood. Just like Mom.

She's not here anymore, but here presence weighs down on me like an eternal promise of pain. I don't know why I feel her presence, still. It's easier to pretend my life has been this mechanical and written in stone all along. Looking at old pictures of Mom and I sitting at the kitchen table every Sunday before her alcoholism just makes me realise how avoidable this entire situation was, how much better our lives could have been if we'd just put a stop to the addiction in its early stages. We all know that it's always easier said than done, but blaming ourselves makes dealing with the pain less agonising. 

But I think I now know why Mom will always be a part of me. It's because I loved Mom. And she loved me. When you love someone they become a part of who you are. They're in everything you do. Mom was the water in my drink, the air in my breath and the blood in my veins. When you love someone as deeply as I loved my mother, you realise they aren't perfect and their dreams become your dreams – as do their nightmares. But that's exactly the problem. Mom tried her best to hide her nightmares from me, but deep down I knew her flaws, the deep-down truths and all the vicious lies. I've found a balance and relief in the monotony of the continuous cycle, but I know that it won't take much to make the illusion shatter. 

The rusty wheels of the shopping cart creak as I move through the aisles. I'd been assigned grocery shopping for the day by Ezra, and I'd decided to wake up early so that I could watch the sunrise while I was still at it. Over the years, I've learned that shopping at 5am before all the noisily bargaining customers come in after the sun rises is when you get the best deals.

The rusty wheels of the shopping cart creak as I move through the aisles, taking only what we need, just enough to last the week. Milk, waffles, and some packaged boiled vegetables, the kinds you get in cling-film wrapped transparent cartons. Tons of cinnamon cereal for Dakota and those canned energy drinks named after something frightening like a monster, or demon, or whatnot for Blake. Powdered coffee for Ezra and Orange juice for Olivia. What feels like several pounds of broccoli and cheese for Isaac.

By the time the cashier has packaged the bought items, there are too many bags to carry, but I loop several through many of my sprained fingers, praying that the material doesn't snap. The sun isn't even out yet, and there's a slight chill in the air because of the onset of winter that makes me glad that I wore my fingerless gloves and beanie.

I walk around the back of the grocery store, carefully stepping over burnt out cigarette stumps and broken bottles of cherry coke. And that's when I see them.

They're a group of boys, not much older than I am, and they stand in the alley with their black hoods on, trying to fool themselves into hiding from the darkness of the early morning instead of the real darkness festering inside them. I've seen them often when I go to school every morning, preying on the occasional passersby who is just trying to get on with their business in peace. These aren't boys, they're dangerous men and it's no surprise that people talk about them a lot. Maybe it's because they terrorise our neighbourhood, which they do. There's a lot of talk about how they have matching tattoos and unlimited supply of drug money from shady sources.

They don't seem to pay me any attention as I cross their alley. They're either too stoned or have had too many cigarettes. My noiseless movements that I've learned either by deed or by design is helping me remain invisible. But that's when the bag of apples decides to snap. The apples litter out into the street, bright germanium red under the flashy neon signs. The attention still hasn't been brought upon me, but as I move to retrieve the few apples that traitorously rolled down the alley, I can see that I'm being noticed. It's a dangerous predicament, but if I pretend that I'm harmless and have already spent all my money on the food, then they'll let me pass. 

I try to catch an apple while it's still rolling and I almost have it until shiny white sneakers come into my vision. I stand up tall and face the owner of the shoes.

"Well, well. Look what we have here."

His face has a scar that's running down his right eyebrow and he has a black eye. I'm pretty sure he thinks it makes him look stronger, but I can see past the facade. His pupils are blown wide, and his breath reeks of cheap liquor. Too wasted to be a threat. He takes a bite of the fallen apple - my apple - and throws the rest back without eating it up. Indecent wastage of food for no good reason.

But apparently the apple doesn't go to waste. Because someone catches it. Someone who I know very well because he lives under the same roof as me – and last night, forgot to clean the kitchen and got shouted at by Ezra.

Blake.

"Leave her alone, she's with me." Blake says, and pushes past the leader and takes some of the bags from my hands. I choose to look down at him, and I hope I've not shown him the disappointment in my eyes because I still don't feel deserving of a sibling bond with him. He is a stranger to me, as I am to him.

But I've noticed things about Blake in the short time since ezra took me in. He escapes, runs away from responsibility. That's part of the reason why he's having a big fight with Ezra. He's escaping a reality that he should have faced a long, long time ago. A reality in which he is parentless. 

He takes all the bags and doesn't let me carry a single one of them.

"You know carrying the bags won't make me obligated to not tell on you to Ezra." I say quietly.

"I know Indigo, but maybe it'll make you less likely to tell him?" His statement sounds unsure, almost as if he's posing a question. 

It's the first time he's ever spoken to me.

"I know I'm not in a position to demand anything from you-" I begin quietly, unsure and nervous about how to phrase something this sensitive.

"-but you shouldn't hang out with them. I don't know your reasons, but we both know this isn't an option."

"You are."

"I'm what?"

"You are in a position to demand things from me Indigo. You're my fucking sister, it doesn't get stronger than that. I'm sorry for treating you like you mean nothing to me. But I have this thing where I keep pushing people because I'm afraid that they'll eventually grow tired of me. Just like dad."

"Blake it's okay-"

"No it's not okay. You are not liable to put up with my shit. I love you and I'm sorry. And for the record i'm not in a position to demand anything because I've been horrible to you, but can you please not tell Ezra? I promise not to meet up with them again."

It's the most words Blake has ever spoken to me. He's definitely high . I can see it in his stride. He is swaying a little, like another gust of wind will blow him away. I make a grab for the groceries but he doesn't let me.

I make a quick decision not to tell Ezra. 

Because maybe it's asking too much that things go back to normal. What is 'normal' anyway? Hasn't it lost all its meaning? After all speed is relative. Some people move quickly and others move slowly. We all have different timelines trying to desperately find a common scale. Everyday I tell myself it really doesn't matter because in no way does it mean that we're getting more done either way; all that matters is that we keep going.

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