To The Moon and Back

𝟑𝟖 | 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Standing up, I walk toward the door, lingering there momentarily as I contemplate waiting for her or going to check on her. She has been in there for far longer than usual.

Grasping the cold doorknob, I turn it and quietly open the door, checking my line of sight before closing it behind me and heading down the hallway slightly, eyes widening when Rory's father exits the kitchen, walking over to the living room, thankfully not sparing a glance toward me as I silently open the bathroom door and slip inside.

The yellow lightbulb illuminates the small room. A moth swarms around the light, buzzing. The wallpaper seems to have peeled even more since last being here. From the little I have seen of the Kingsley's Residence; it appears that this house is falling apart at the seams, though I am not one to judge.

I suppose in a way, my parent's sheltered me from this lifestyle. And I don't know whether to be thankful or angered by that. And I do not mean that they never introduced the concept of lower-middle-class people. What I mean is, that I was bought into a big, happy family. I never had to hear my parents argue. I am not a part of the demographic that includes having divorced parents. I never understood that some people's biggest fear is the person who bought them life.

Until now.

To Rory, this is normal. But to me—from an outsider's perspective, none of this is okay. I want more for her. I wish she didn't have to live in the garage because she used to share a room with her sister, and now it makes her too sad to sleep there. I wish that she didn't have a drunken mother and an unlovable father. I wish that her walls weren't darkened from cigarette smoke and her dog didn't have to sit outside in the rain all day to prevent her father from shouting at her.

I suppose that is yet another reason I know that I love her. I'm selfish. If I can't be happy, I want others to suffer. I like equality and to me, fighting for my life every day, bones straining with every movement, heart aching with each exhale, whilst other's last thought before falling asleep at night is how in the morning, they get to wake up and live another day, to me is unfair.

I don't get to live for tomorrow. I don't want to live for tomorrow—not when I feel like this.

But, Rory. God. I want her to have tomorrow, the day after that and every tomorrow for eternity. I want her to have the best tomorrow in the entire world. Because even if I feel this way, I want her to feel so much more because she is so much more. I would give my last ounce of happiness—and believe me my happiness has been running dry for years—if that meant making her feel okay.

"Rory?" I call her name not too loud but not too quiet either.

She doesn't respond and I assume that she simply doesn't hear me over the shower, but her shower isn't all that loud.

Warily shoving the shower curtain open, I am met with emptiness until I look down, met with Rory's bare body, her eyes closed and her pale skin bright red and splotchy all over, the purple-blue hue of her veins so vibrant that I can make out every single one on her body. Her arms and legs sprawled out awkwardly around her.

Reaching out, I turn the faucet off, killing the water before touching my hand to her head. Even despite the heat captured between the four walls of this room, she still feels cold to the touch.

"Rory," I whisper-shout, lightly shaking her shoulder as I kneel down.

Her body moves but she remains unresponsive, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow and inconsistent. Anxiety wraps its fingers around my heart and tightens, restricting my breathing. The walls of my throat close in, making every exhale a strained effort.

I grab the edge of the bathtub to pull myself up. Rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, I reach down, sliding my hands beneath her arms to gently lift her out of the tub. Her body lifts with ease, almost as though she is completely weightless.