Here is Home • The Pack

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

It was sunny, you could notice by seeing a line of sun coming from the still closed curtains in the bedroom where Lachlan and Preston were still cuddling in bed, the clock marked 9am but yet no one wanted to leave the bed in the house, not Jerome, not Lachlan and sure not Preston, there was a deep silence in the house. Lachlan takes the advantage to be able to get up and grab some cigarette and making breakfast for him and Preston, when Jerome heard some noice in the kitchen he got out of his room to see what was happening and he sees Lachlan.

"Where's Preston?"

Lachlan took a look at Jerome exhaling a cloud of smoke from his cigarette "He's sleeping," he replied.

Turning back to the kitchen to continue making some breakfast, Jerome went back to his room to continue sleeping, while Preston got back to his room with breakfast in hand, getting closer to Preston who still was curled up on his side of his bed.

"Hello sunshine, time to wake up." Lachlan said, opening the window curtains and letting the sun come in, Preston mumbled... "What's that mumbles?" Lachlan replied with half smile.

"Got you some breakfast, you want some?"

"I'm not hungry." Preston replied with a raspy deep voice.

"You got to eat something, man, not gonna leave you starving," Lachlan said.

Preston turned his back to Lachlan, repeating "I'm not hungry, I'm tired. Let me sleep"

"Okay, I'll be back in a few hours. I'll bring you back something," Lachlan said as he walked out the door.

••

Before Lachlan goes, he touches his hand to Preston's forehead like he's checking for temperature and brushes the hair out of his face. Preston tries to think about that, but he can't. He's bad. The world is bad. It's as pure as that, bleakness all around, nothing but dark times as far as the eye can see.

It's been like this before, but not as absolute.

It's been like this before, but not as heavy.

The wrongness, it settles in around Preston like a nest of flies. His skin feels prickly all over, as if something were living in it. He burrows into the blankets and clutches at his own shoulder. He has this idea, like, if he lets go his chest will crack open and something will fall out. His guts. His heart. His excrement, coming in black waves from his intestines.

He thinks he's going to be sick.

He'd do anything — anything — to make it go away.

Yesterday Lachlan was holding his hand and they were laughing. They were stupid and fearless and in love. They were going to love each other ferociously and defiantly. They were going to love each other sweetly, learn how to touch the soft places now that the fist had come down and somehow, miraculously, only their skin had been bruised.

Already, that feels like it happened about twenty years ago.

Sometime midday Preston crawls out of bed to use the bathroom. His skin is cold but he's not going to put on a sweater or take the blankets with him. Christ, he can hardly summon the energy to breathe.

Jess is sitting on a chair in the kitchen, a red-streaked towel around her shoulders and her hair in a plastic net. "Hiya Preston," she says. Her voice sounds like water over rocks. Normally, Preston likes her, but right now, even thinking about talking makes him feel like Sisyphus. "You like the colour?" she says to him, and he walks past, shuts the door.