Trying To Endure

Chapter Twenty-Seven

SONG: Sleeping At Last - Saturn

🌺

April Levesque

Nana brought over Whiskey. Swaddling him into my arms, I hike to my droom, sniffing and tears dropping onto his fur the second I close the door.

I take out my phone. Texts, texts, texts from Jasmine and the group. I press on the contacts, scrolling to the M section. I called the number, and it ended in a voicemail. "Hey, this is Mike. Obviously I'm too busy to return the call or maybe I can't be asked." I laugh through the tears. "Anyways, leave a message after the beep."

I click on a different voicemail. "Ape, we shouldn't really be doing this, but your brothers and I are outside the restaurant," said Dad. Wind warbled in the background. This was on the night of my first date. "We're just being cautious."

The tears dribble into my smile.

"The prick didn't open the door for her," grumbled Mike.

"What?" snapped Dad.

"The audacity," said Ethan. He was in the back seat. "Good thing I bought a wooden spoon. Time to spank his flat ass. Asian-style."

I snort, and Whiskey releases an elongated meow.

I wipe the mucus off my nose, staring at the British Shorthair. "Sorry I stole you. I just want my favourite cat."

He huffs in approval, snuggling into my chest, his snow fur tickling my neck.

My neck.

I gently shove Whiskey off, darting to the mirror.

Red finger-lines, circling the cervix, a bruise gradually forming. Luckily, it is faint enough to be concealed in foundation, though the time the harm is purple ... tricky to hide.

I glance at the A1 canvas of Bodie Banks. The dream, the hope, to display the portrait in the school foyer is no longer possible, not after what Rhett did.

Rhett wants me to shut up about Ishaan Ali, but if that painting is in plain sight either in Edgewater Independent or in the city.

Rhett Wallace had the strength to physically abuse me. Who knows what Camila, Aasvhi and Destiny are capable of?

THUD.

"Whiskey!"

The cat somehow leapt to a shelf and batted three books to the ground. I must have forgotten the books as dust steamed off.

Something captures my attention.

The survivor of Mike's existence.

His letter. Slitted in a book.

Mike often wrote letters to us whilst in Syria. The one on the floor was the last message he posted before he died. His comrade found it in the midst of his belongings in the refugee camp.

Whiskey picks up the letter, trotting over the books. I crouch as he drops the brown envelope on my lap.

"Should I read it?" It has been months since I opened it.

Whiskey offers two, slow blinks. Sitting on the bed, I read it. 

***

Dear April,

How are you? How is everyone at home?

A mate asked why I don't do postcards. I said postcards are boring, so small for so many words. It has been a long time since I wrote to you. Three weeks, right? I'm sorry. We're moving locations. I'm writing this letter as the boys and I are packing up the belongings. Honestly, I feel it would be fun if Makayla was here — she'd know how to shut these buffoons up. The constant nattering, nattering and nattering ... Lord, now that I think of it, you're tolerable.