Saving the Reject | Michael Clifford | Editing

t w e n t y s i x ;

Charli

I couldn't breathe.

This morning, Michael and I left my apartment with the promise that we would both be distracted, and so far, we have been successful.  But, standing here alone in front of the mirror in the guys' living room, I was all but distracted.  I physically couldn't breathe on my own free will.

Aiden Jeremy Sparks was born on September twenty-third, 2001.  He was a beautiful baby boy, with blue eyes flecked with an emerald green, a color that had always reminded me of the sea.  I remember the day he was born; I was six years old, Dawson was eleven.  Dawson was fascinated with the entire birthing process, learning about it at school that year, but I had not looked, staying up by my mother's head, brushing away the strands of ginger hair that fell in her face.  I was only six, but I remember it as it was yesterday; usually, the first person a baby sees is their mother, but for Aiden, it was his sister.  And I was blessed.

Aiden Jeremy Sparks was diagnosed with Global Developmental Delay - commonly known as Mental Retardation - Cerebral Palsy, as well as several seizer disorders on January fourth, 2003.  People would think that that day would have changed everything for me, and well, it did - but not in the way you would think.

Aiden Jeremy Sparks died on March thirtieth, 2008, exactly ten days before my fourteenth birthday.  He didn't even get to see his seventh year of life.

And here I am, nearly five years later, in a house Aiden has never stepped foot in before, but as I stared at my reflection, everything reminded me of him.  Dawson had been given our father's features: dark blonde hair, dark eyes, strong features; but Aiden and I had followed more closely with our mother: ginger hair, light eyes, paler skin.  Aiden and I had looked so similar, and as I look myself over now, I wish he hadn't.  I wish he had looked like Dawson.  Dawson's stronger than I am.  He could bare the sorrowful memories each time he looked in the mirror.

Every time.  Every single time I see myself, I see him.  I remember the night the two of us sat in my room, hidden underneath my bed.  I had carved our names into the hardwood floor.  He thought it was for fun.  I knew it was to prove of our existence.  And that night, he lost his.  I did, too.  But not in the same way.

"Chari?"

The concerned voice was not who I had hoped for it to be.  It was not Dawson, or Evie, or Scarlett, or Michael.  It was Calum.  With difficulty, I tore my eyes from the alternative version of myself, looking to Calum.

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly.

Though it kind of terrified me, I was glad for the numbness; I was glad my face wasn't tearstained as it was this morning.  Because with the minimal signs of distress that I had, I could pretend.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I asked him, stepping away from the mirror, casually grabbing a water from the fridge - my original intensions in coming back into the house.  "Are we leaving soon?" I questioned as the two of us walked back out to the garage together.

"Yeah, Luke's just grabbing some golf clubs."

I was taken aback.  "Golf clubs?"

"I'm not completely sure," Calum answered with a laugh.  I laughed as well, glad that it sounded genuine.

"Charli, hey," Michael said as Calum and I made it out front.  Both my mind and my body were still numb, but no matter how well I pretended, I knew from the moment Michael saw me that he knew something was off.  Why can't I lie around him?  "Here, come with me to get my guitar," he continued, meeting me halfway between the door and the car.  I didn't say or do anything in protest when he hung an arm over my shoulders and led me back into the house.