Those Who Shatter

Chapter 2: Monsters and Drawings

"Just look at it," he flourishes, fingers caressing the buttons of the torn apart mechanism in a familial embrace.

I try to keep my panic wrapped tightly behind by ribs by purposefully ignoring the scorched marks on the ceiling above his head. Instead, I focus on his latest invention. "It's our microwave," I respond in a slow, measured way, gearing up to deter him. He always fiddles with our appliances when his brain slips into the spirals of anxiety and loneliness. "You destroyed our only means of nutrition."

"'Destroyed' is such a harsh term," he says, already tinkering with some invisible nail with a screwdriver.

"So is 'starvation.'"

His tongue clucks twice against the roof of his mouth. It's the strongest reprimand he'll ever give to his sarcastic daughter. "But it's solar-powered now, Guinny."

I can't help the tight smile that threatens to encourage my dad. "I'm all for this environmental fad, but there are no windows in here."

As if just noticing his surroundings, he turns his head in a near-impossible 360 degrees angle that his long, thin neck allows. It doesn't take long for him to deduce that there are, indeed, no windows in the square, limited floor plan of the kitchen. The kitchen that we've lived in for nearly two months now.

We still haven't bothered unpacking.

"Well," he begins like the thought is newly awakened, "I will admit that the lack of sunlight does prove to be a setback."

I touch him on the shoulder as I make my way towards the haphazardly magnetized pamphlets stuck to our fridge. "I'll just call for takeout. Where's Leo?"

"Drawing in his room," he replies to the question of my younger brother's whereabouts. His head is already stuffed back into the open door of the microwave.

"Chinese tonight? If there is such a thing as good Asian cuisine in Confederate America."

My father snorts at my dramatic tone. "You should study those history books before school starts."

School.

It made me snort with laughter. School is too vague of a term for it. Down here in Middle Tennessee, 'school' is referred to as Battlefield Preparatory Academy, a private school for the privileged descendants of Civil War heroes, no doubt. For a war that they had lost, the South sure seems fond of it.

I sigh again. "Dinner, Dad?"

But Robert James is already back to muttering equations and probabilities under his breath as he tips the microwave backward to observe some answer that must be tacked there to the appliance's bottom. I grab the first foldable menu I can find amidst the mess, and then my ring constricts around my finger.

The menu falls to the floor, and my swift inhale sticks in my throat like a poorly chewed spoonful of the fried rice I was just about to order. It's my dad; it has to be. Robert James. My mind spins out of control, swirling with his mathematical mutterings and absent ideas, and I turn my back on him, clutching my left wrist to my chest and then up towards my eyes—

Jam.

The toast condiment.

My exhale rustles the menus decorating the fridge. I don't even bother to read the rest of the name because the relief unties my strung muscles until I laugh shortly under my breath. The ring loosens and cools against my skin. Jam disappears. I smile, twirling the band around my finger just to mock Serah Mallory and her idle threats. Six months ago, I never would have allowed enough time to pass for a name to repeat itself into my ring without any action on my part. But, then again, six months ago, I had a partner.