THE MAYFAIR MOON - The Darkmoon Saga I

Chapter 4 - Traumatized

Uncle Carl and Beverlee were sitting in the den when I got home. The house smelled of pork chops.

"So...uh," Carl said, but it was all he managed; he wasn't great at the parenting thing, but he was trying.

"What he means to say is," Beverlee jumped in, "was your first day a good one?"

"It was fine."

"So, then you made friends?" Carl added.

"Yeah. I didn't have to eat lunch alone on the first day, so that's good."

He nodded and buried his nose back inside his Scientific American magazine, where it felt more comfortable.

"I'm going to...well, I mean, if it's all right, I'd like to go to the skate park with them later." I wasn't used to having to ask permission to go anywhere. My mom let Alex and me go wherever we wanted.

"Sure, you can go," said Beverlee. Her eyes were bright, probably happy to see I was fitting in. But then the smile faded, and she lowered her voice and said, "Maybe you could see if Alex might want to go, too."

"I'll ask her." I had a feeling, though, that it would be a wasted effort.

I thought it would be an opportunity to talk some sense into my sister, to get her to come out of her shell and talk about what she was feeling, at least. It didn't take a psychiatrist to know that Alex needed professional help. My sister was as different as winter and summer, suffering from PTSD, surely. But I wasn't about to suggest it—professional help. Knowing what I knew about what made her that way, no one would believe her, much less help her. They'd just lock her up.

Alex was sitting on her bed, staring out the window, when I walked in. Her room was a disaster. Suitcases were tossed on the floor where clothes and various things lay scattered. A plate stained with remnants of meatloaf sat atop her chest of drawers, the fork stuck to the carpet. I counted six red plastic cups sitting on her nightstand and dresser; ants had taken up residence inside them.

She wore the same white T-shirt she had on yesterday and the same jeans. Her dark hair was oily and matted and gross. She had always been more organized than I was, and everything she owned always had a place. She was orderly and clean and sometimes overly meticulous. But this, the way her room looked now—the way she looked now—was unlike her in every way.

"Wanna get out of the house for a while?" I asked, hopeful. "I'm going to meet up with some new friends at a skate park. Or, you and I could just go for a walk and check out the town." I remained standing near the door; it was the first time I'd ever felt unwelcome in my sister's room.

She never responded. I moved farther inside, stepping over a box that contained her Precious Moments collection, each wrapped carefully in old newspaper. Our great-grandmother had given them to her, one for each birthday until she died. I was surprised to be stepping over them on a dirty, cluttered floor.

Alex hardly seemed to move, and it worried me. I doubted that she had even blinked since I'd walked into the room. Her pale face held no emotion. No anger. No sadness. Absolutely nothing.

"Have you talked to Mom at all?" I asked, leaning against the dresser.

"No," she said, still not looking at me, her voice flat and uninterested.

I hesitated, crossing my arms.

"Well, for what it's worth," I said, "you were right."

Still nothing.

"I was mad at you at first," I went on, "about telling them Jeff did that to us and for getting me sent here. But I know why you did it. And I understand."