Paranoia (Zayn Malik) (editing)

Chapter 4: The Man

                                                               LUNA

I watch as my dad paces nervously back and forth in the living room, murmuring about stuff I don't have the heart to ask about. I sit on the bottom step of the stairs adjacent to the open door, studying him, babysitting him. He gets like this occasionally; I never know if it's a bad trug trip or just his general descent into madness that has been building over the years. I watch him to make sure he doesn't have a heart attack or choke on his tongue or vomit or something else that will end his cycle of substance abuse once and for all. Besides, it's not like I sleep at these hours anyway.

"Luna?"

A small child-like voice calls from the top of the stairs and it's been so long since I've had a full night of sleep I fully expect it to be nothing, a voice from the back of my head that has managed to use my delirium to manifest to my consciousness, maybe the version of myself that longs to still be a child, before I was forced to be an adult. However, when I turn back, I see Cara's small figure wrapped in a pink blanket stepping down slowly until she reaches my side. She plops herself down onto my step and leans into my torso. I wrap an arm around her.

"What're you doing up, chick?" I ask quietly.

"Can't sleep." She shrugs haphazardly "I don't like it when he's like this."

"Me either."

"Do you get scared you're going to wake up to him dead, too?"

Something so dark sounds so wrong coming out of her young mouth. She shouldn't be worrying about anything except her favourite cartoons being discontinued, what pair of striped tights she's going to pair with her latest magenta t-shirt, not her father's imminent death. I want to lie, spin a happier existence for her than the one we have. I want to say, 'that's not going to happen, Cara.'But the truth is, it might.

"Yeah." I admit, and I don't care to be introspective enough to delve into whether it's the reason for my insomnia right now.

"I'll stay up with you." She declares, pulling her blanket from around her shoulders and laying it across my lap.

"No." I say so quickly I find it hard to believe my brain had time to process it "You've got school in the morning."

"It's not like I can sleep, anyway." She rests her head on my shoulder, settling into her place next to me on the stairs.

I begin to worry she's going to grow up to be me. While I'm sure many older sisters would be honoured for such a thing, the very thought absolutely terrifies me. I don't want her to inherit anything about me, and so far I've been doing well enough, but from the late nights to her verbalising some of my deepest fears, I'm starting to see the twelve-year old girl I once was behind her eyes.

"It's not always going to be like this, Cara." I squeeze her slender arm "You're going to get out of here."

She chuckles lightly "Oh absolutely, I'm leaving you fuckers in my dust."

I pinch her side "Mind your language, you cheeky git. Where did you even learn that, fuckers? You're a child."

"I'm twelve, not three." She huffs "You and Tiago swear all the time."

"That's because we're old fuckers." Tiago's voice bellows down the stairs as he jogs down, dressed in a high-visibility vest for work. Cara stands to let him pass and he peers into the living room to see our father has reduced himself to praying on his hands and knees in tears "Praying? That's new."

"Seems like a bad trip." I nod.

"Seems like a crazy asshole." He frowns, turning back to us "Besides, we're all getting out of here, he's the fucker we're leaving in the dust."