Insanity

Title your Story Part

I sat on my bed for the hundredth time staring at my door. I didn't know why. Maybe a part of me was hoping my mom would stop her wallowing and just come and talk to me. A simple "Hey, Cameron, I'm going to the store. Need anything?" Would be more than enough. No. She just slams the front door. I guess it became her way of announcing her arrival from work or her exit to wherever.

It was like this for two months. Maybe it was because my alcoholic father decided to ditch us. It was only about two weeks later my mom suddenly became depressed. I didn't think she realized her self-pity was affecting me too. I confronted her last week.

**

I walked into the living room. A simple room for a not so simple family. Mom's body was basically draped across the couch. Her dull green eyes staring at the ceiling; her short, unkempt black hair framing her pale face.

"Are you done?" I had asked. She tilted her head towards me only to avoid my gaze and stared at the wall.

"With your petty attitude, I mean. Just asking, you know. An answer would be nice." My answer was replied by her actions. She slowly sat up with an expression of pure rage; her face contorted and red. Her trembling figure stumbled to the wooden dinner table across the room and snatched the floral porcelain vase - the centerpiece. She threw it at me; her favorite vase that was black with minute red roses and white stems. I never moved an inch. It shattered against the wall not too far to my right.

"You missed. Would you like to try again?" This time she did look at me. "It's pretty disappointing that you would throw a vase at your kid." I walked to the closet in the neighboring room to retrieve the broom and dust pan. How long did it take to clean those shards? A few minutes? And all that time she stared at the broken pottery. I wondered if she regretted almost injuring me or if she wanted to throw a different object other than her favorite vase.

"Talk to me when you're ready, yeah?" I walked to my room across the hall.

**

I sighed. Maybe some things can't be helped. What if I ran away? I shook my head and leaned back against the wall. Selfish.

"You're right, Cameron." I gasped and immediately snatched my pocket knife from my nightstand and stood at the far end of the room. A young boy with dark shaggy hair, bright green eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles was sitting on my bed. How did I not feel his weight on my bed? He didn't look that light.

"Relax, Cammy, geez." He said these words in a casual manner. How'd he know my name? "I don't know you." My voice an unconfident whisper.

"I'm simply here to help. C'mon, tell me what's wrong. I'm not gonna hurt you. Pinkie promise." He pat the space next to him. Did he look like a threat? Not really. Show no weakness and just keep the knife in your hand...but an unknown trespasser had set high alerts anyway. I reluctantly sat next to him, keeping a distance and a strong grip on my knife.

Right after I sat down, a foreign feeling pushed its way into my veins. What was it? Ah, yes: Comfort. Something I haven't felt in what seemed like an eternity. (I still held my knife.) But there was a dark and familiar sound that I was so sick of: Silence. It was always there, no matter what. Could I cut it with the blade?

"Have I gone insane? Or is this a dream?" My voice cut the deafening silence. "My door is closed and my window is locked and my closet is full of junk and there are tons of books under my bed. Am I missing something?"

He chuckled. "I'm simply here to help. And I can't do that unless you tell me what's wrong." Should I have taken this somewhat gentle approach on mom? Perhaps I had been too brash. I pressed my lips together. He's a stranger! Don't trust him! But I had been told that I should confide in others, and he had this enticing and familiar presence. I decided to tell him what was wrong. I told him about my mom and my confrontation from last week. It felt like a small weight was lifted off my shoulders with every word I said.

"Who are you? A stranger in my room probably no older older than thirteen. Why am I even talking to you?"

"So she never told you, huh? A shame, indeed. She never was strong woman." He sounded disappointed. "You know my mom?" I questioned. "What did she not tell me? I've been left out for too long. Tell me. Please." I was almost begging him. Almost. The anticipation was rising.

There was a long pause. Then, "You know, I would've been a firefighter. Saving lives is what matters, right? I would have gone to a local school and started a fan club for the Avengers. Boy, what an adventure that could have been!" When did this become about him? I thought he was helping me.

"I'm sorry, but how is that relevant to your helping-," He interrupted me.

"I would have taken honors classes in high school, probably prank my teachers. I'd have been bullied by some 'know-it-all' kid and have my head dunked in a toilet." This boy who was barely old enough to be a teenager was summing up his life.

"What are you-," his smile only grew bigger; his eyes looking into a distance past my bedroom wall. "I would have lived my life to the fullest. You know, consult my older siblings when I was down or had girl problems and play a local sport." He looked at me. "But that will never happen. Remember when you asked if you had gone insane?" I nodded and gulped.

"Well, just for tonight, you really did go insane."

"Who- what are you?" My throat was dry. I could hear my heart pounding. His green eyes swallowed mine. Was he thinking about his identity? "Your eyes could be greener than mine," he stated matter-of-factly. I laughed. I haven't done that in so long.

"Did you know your mom fell down a flight of stairs a couple weeks after your dad left? She was texting a co-worker." My grin faded, my shoulders tensed, and my brows furrowed. Mom never told me that. "She was okay though. Not one scratch on her skin," he assured. I relaxed a bit. I shouldn't have been surprised. She was never one with finesse. I wanted to avoid the topic of my mom for a little while longer.

"So how would you die?" I figured why not? His life seemed better than mine.

"I would die rescuing a person from an apartment complex fire. It would be an attempted murder on their roommate. Things just got out of control; candles and curtains and all... But that's what firefighters do, right? Saving lives is what matters. I didn't know why I became so engrossed in his story. I wasn't even sure if he was honest about his words. He listened to me, so I guess I repaid him by listening to him.

"Well, I should go. I've said more than enough to help you." We both slid off the bed and stood facing each another. He was a few inches shorter. "Sorry, but I don't see how you helped me. You talked about an impossible life." He cupped my face and leaned on his toes and kissed my head.

"Try to talk to your mom again about what I said earlier. She fell down those stairs. Not a scratch on her skin, but something happened inside of her." He placed his hand on his stomach and looked at me expectantly. I did a huge sigh and stepped back a bit. Why didn't she tell me? "Mom was pregnant." He nodded. "Is that why my dad left? Did it die when she fell?" Why didn't she tell me?! I sat down on my bed. The knife I had held so tightly not too long ago glinted in the sunlight.

"Yes, yes," he whispered. "You would have had a little brother with black hair and green eyes and pale skin just like your mom, and some freckles like your dad." My bottom lip quivered. I looked up at him.

"Who are you?" I asked. He smiled and let a single tear slide down his right cheek.

"My dear, I am the little brother that was never born."